


A Hero And A Scholar

by delta_owl



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hamilton Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, American Politics, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Needs a Hug, Domestic Fluff, Duelling, Extramarital Affairs, Fluff and Angst, Hamilton Lyrics, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Logic | Logan Sanders-centric, Love at First Sight, M/M, Married Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders is a Sweetheart, POV Alternating, Revolutionary War, Romantic Fluff, You've been warned, but adapted for normal dialogue, if you know hamilton you know EXACTLY where this is going, no plot points have been changed friends, seriously the angst is off the charts, some scenes get spicy, this is literally just the plot of hamilton guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 56,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delta_owl/pseuds/delta_owl
Summary: Bastard. Orphan. Son of a whore. Logan Hamilton has always endured these labels, but when he immigrates to New York City on the eve of the American Revolution, he's determined to rise above his station and prove to the world that his name is one to remember.His revolutionary friends will fight with him. Remus Jefferson will fight against him. Virgil Laurens will die for him. Thomas Washington will trust him. Patton and Roman Schuyler will love him - but Patton will be the one to ultimately bear the ups and downs of being his husband.And Janus Burr, well... he's the damn fool that shot him.So begins A Hero And A Scholar, a Sanders Sides Hamilton AU...
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Other(s)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 55





	1. 1776, New York City

**Author's Note:**

> Oh shit, delta_owl's back on her novel-length au bullshit :)
> 
> Please heed the tags, especially if you're unfamiliar with the plot of Hamilton! There will be character death and resulting angst. This isn't exactly a "happy" tale, but there will be plenty of soft, happy scenes (and a couple original spicy ones) to balance out the angst of this musical.
> 
> Stay safe, dear readers, and enjoy this little au of mine!

_The heel of his boot hit the salt-slicked dock._

_He lifted his face to the sun, to the seagulls circling overhead. So much cooler than the climate of his homeland. White clouds bunched at the horizons of the bright blue sky._

_“Move along, kid.”_

_He clutched the handles of his single travel bag, biting back a retort as the other passengers of the ship disembarked and made for the registration counter at the end of the pier. He wasn’t a kid, not really. He was nineteen years old, fully a man, but he let it slide that time only because he didn’t want to get plunked right back onto the ship. No point in picking fights his first day in the colonies._

_That was for later._

_The line of immigrant families stretched down the dock. Slaves carrying bundled shipments ducked their heads and squeezed past them, nearly tripping over the tarred ropes and stacked crates lying around. It sickened him to still see slaves in the colonies, but he’d vowed long ago to do something about the disgrace of slavery. He had the brains for it, he just… lacked the polish. For now._

_The line inched up. He practically bounced on his heels in excitement. His travel bag slapped against his shins each time. There was the counter - he could see its weather-worn wood, now._

_Beyond: the bustling streets of New York City, the jewel of the British colony of New York. There were lobster-backed soldiers standing here and there amid the throngs of people._

_He didn’t miss the glares the passersby shot them. He’d come at just the right time._

_Up and up the line moved, immigrants dispersing to the wind after their turn at the table. And then, the burly sailor ahead of him stepped aside, and it was his turn, at last._

_The tired dockworker behind the ledgers was sweating under the sun. “What’s your name?” he droned._

_His name._

_It wasn’t a notable one. It meant nothing to the dockworker - he was just another immigrant pouring into the city, coming up from the bottom. Another face, another worthless name._

_But once his time was up on this earth - oh, he’d build a legacy out of that name like nothing America had ever seen._

_“Your name, man?”_

_He lifted his chin._

_“Logan Hamilton."_

* * *

He was listening to a revolutionary dissenter speak out in the park in front of a crowd of young fellow scholars when, out of the corner of his eye, Logan spied a face he’d only ever heard about.

The young man’s long, tailored coat was all black. His columns of buttons shone gold to match the yellow-toned gloves on his hands. His dark hair was brushed back off his face so that the warm brown patch of vitiligo splashed across one side of his pale face was bared to the sun.

Logan immediately broke from the crowd of revolutionary scholars and rushed to intercept him.

“Pardon me,” he called, “but are you Janus Burr, sir?”

The young man turned around. He had heterochromia, Logan noted as the man raised an eyebrow at him. “Depends who’s asking,” he replied smoothly.

“Of course. Apologies.” Logan extended his hand. “My name is Logan Hamilton, at your service.”

“Janus,” he said, shaking it tersely. “Though you already seem to know that.”

“I do, yes. I’ve actually been looking for you for an extended length of time, but I haven’t had much luck at all until now -”

“Should I be concerned?” Janus smirked.

Logan blinked, then waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “No, no, nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. Merely a minor miscommunication. You see, the situation is, I was visiting your stomping ground of Princeton just last week - I’m a King’s College student myself - exploring the possibility of an accelerated course of study, when I found myself engaged in an altercation with a man in administration whom I believe is a friend of yours. I believe I may have punched him.”

“ _Punched_ him?”

“My memory of the encounter is somewhat of a blur,” admitted Logan. “I wouldn’t put it past myself, I know I’ve got a pretty quick temper.”

Janus seemed to take a moment to process all the information Logan was slinging at him. Logan felt a twinge of embarrassment, but he just couldn’t stop his rush of words. His neighbors back in the Caribbean always said he tended to shoot off at the mouth when he got overexcited.

“Who was it you punched, exactly?” Janus eventually asked.

“I don’t exactly recall.” Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “He handles the financials?”

“So you punched the _bursar of Princeton College_.”

“Yes, that sounds right.”

Janus took a deep breath that ended in more of a sigh. “Okay,” he said. “Dare I ask _why_ you punched him?”

“Well, I was hoping to follow in your academic footsteps - graduate in only two years, jump right into the revolution, give myself a head start in the world - but your buddy, the bursar, gave me a once-over and immediately looked at me in a way that clearly meant he thought I was either out of my mind or completely stupid, and I’m not stupid.”

“Naturally, the more you say it, the truer it gets,” murmured the man.

“Exactly!” beamed Logan. “So, anyway, what I’ve been trying to say is, since the bursar was no help at all, I figured I should ask you… how’d you do it? How’d you graduate so quickly?”

“It was my parents’ dying wish before they passed,” said Janus with a flat smile, turning to walk away. 

Logan was having none of that. “You’re an orphan?” he said, eyes wide.

“That’s generally what having two deceased parents is called.”

“Well, yes, sure, but this is fantastic! I’m an orphan, too!”

“Oh, goodie.”

“Are you involved in the revolution?” Logan asked. “You must be, it’s all anyone has talked about since I arrived from the West Indies. And I can’t imagine a fellow orphan would give up such a ripe opportunity for advancement and making a name for oneself on the battlefield -”

Janus held up one finger, stopping Logan in his tracks. He gave him an exasperated smile. “Can I buy you a drink, Mr…”

“Logan Hamilton, sir.”

“Right.”

“That would be very kind of you,” he said.

“Splendid,” said Janus. “By the way, now that we’re apparently talking, let me offer you some free advice.”

“Anything,” said Logan as they made their way for the nearest tavern door. He reached for the handle, but Janus’ glove came down hard on the metal, blocking him. His smile was still flat as ever.

“Talk less,” he clipped, “and smile more.”

Logan blinked. The man’s dual-colored eyes were firm. “I… what?” he asked.

“You’re new in town. You’re going around talking everyone’s ears off during the most heated period of civil unrest these colonies have ever known. Trust me, Logan - sometimes, it’s best to just keep your head down and not let anyone know exactly what you’re for and against.”

“I… you can’t be serious,” Logan almost laughed. 

“You said you wanted my advice.”

“But we’re in the middle of a revolution,” he exclaimed. “I can’t just keep my head down and do nothing, if I do people will think I’m a Loyalist.”

“You say that like the opinions of others have _any_ bearing on your life,” Janus sighed. “Being thought of as a Loyalist isn’t nearly as problematic as, oh, I don’t know, being _executed by the British military for treason._ ”

Logan crossed his arms. “I’m not going to stand idly by when I have the chance to speak out against oppression. If I die for it, at least I’ll go down swinging.”

“Fine. You can lead a horse to water, but you sure as hell can’t make it drink, I suppose. Do what you want.” Janus took his hand off the tavern door with a sniff. “Fools who run their mouths like you wind up dead more often than not, but that’s none of my business.”

Logan rolled his eyes and pushed open the tavern door.

He was immediately met with a cacophony of noise. A crowd of young patrons of the rough-hewn tavern had gathered around one of the bench tables off to the side, where three young people stood on the tabletop, raising mugs to the ceiling and whipping up the cheers of the spectators.

The man in the center caught Logan’s attention. “What time is it?” the man jeered, flipping his purple-dyed bangs out of his bright, stormy eyes.

“Showtime!” the other two called, and the patrons cheered louder. Logan’s heart gave a little flip. _Oh, he’s hot._

Beside him, Janus groaned. “Like I said,” he muttered.

“Who are they?” asked Logan.

“A bunch of revolutionary morons, if you ask me. Right up your alley.” He jerked his chin at them. “They’re doing another one of their poetry readings.”

“Revolutionary poetry?”

Janus sighed at the enamored expression on Logan’s face. “I’ll be in the corner with your drink,” he droned, sweeping off towards the bar.

Logan was drawn to the people standing on the table like a magnet. The purple-haired man jabbed his free thumb at his chest, grinning wide at their assembled audience as he launched into his refrain. 

_“I’m Virgil Laurens in the place to be,_

_Two pints of Sam Adams but I’m workin’ on three!_

_Those redcoats don’t want it with me,_

_‘Cause I will pop-chicka-pop these cops ‘till I’m free!”_

Cheers went up. Logan couldn’t help but grin back. Beside Virgil, a tall lanky man with a mug gripped in his fingers adjusted his tinted spectacles over his eyes and recited his own lines with a smirk and a heavy French accent.

_“Ah, oui, oui, mon ami, je m’appelle Lafayette,_

_The Lancelot of the revolutionary set,_

_I came from afar just to say ‘Bonsoir,’_

_Tell the king, ‘Casse toi!’ Who is the best?_

_C’est moi!”_

Logan applauded along with the rest of the riotous group. The final person stepped up to the center of the table.

_“Brrah, brrah! Yeah, my name is Joan Mulligan,_

_Up in it, lovin’ it, yes I heard your mother say ‘Come again!’_

_Lock up your daughters and horses, of course_

_It’s hard to have intercourse over four sets of corsets!”_

Hoots and catcalls rose up to the ceiling. Virgil hooked Joan around the shoulders with a wink to finish out their set.

_“No more sex, pour me another brew, son,_

_Let’s raise a couple more -”_

“ _To the revolution!_ ” The entire crowd joined in, raising their tankards with a holler and drinking deeply, devolving into laughter and chatter. The three friends clambered off the table and slapped hands with various people who came up to congratulate them on the show. Logan dove into the crowd, shouldering his way through, eager to meet them himself.

As the cluster dissolved, the three poets eventually found their way back to the bar where Janus had been watching over the rim of his own mug. Virgil turned a wooden bar chair around and hopped up, sitting backwards with his arms folded over the top. “Well well,” he said, “if it isn’t the prodigy of Princeton College, dropping in on our little rave.”

“Didn’t think this place was your scene, Janus,” said Joan, leaning against the bartop.

“Finally decide to change your mind and give us a verse of your own?”

Janus scoffed. “Good luck with that. You go ahead and spit in the face of the most powerful military force in the world. See how well that works for you. I’ll be over here, _alive_.”

“Boo,” jeered the Frenchman.

“Remy, you’re not even from the colonies. I can understand why Virgil and Joan would so flippantly launch themselves into death and destruction, but you?” Janus leveled a look at him.

“It’s a noble cause!” Remy insisted.

“Face it, Janus,” said Virgil, “the revolution’s imminent. The real question is, what’s your holdup? Scared?”

“Pragmatic,” he retorted.

Logan, having finally reached their group, crossed his arms. “Come on,” he said. “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?”

Four pairs of eyes trained on him. 

Including Virgil’s bright gray ones. The man seemed to freeze, gaze locked on his face. Logan felt warmth creep up his neck and Virgil’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

Remy broke the split-second moment. “Oi, oi, who are you?” he frowned.

“Who is this kid?” Joan asked Janus as the latter took a long-suffering swig of his alcohol. “You know him?”

“Unfortunately.” Janus set down his mug and waved a dismissive hand in Logan’s direction. “Gentlemen and Joan, this is Logan Hamilton. He tried to drag me into your revolution out on the street so I offered to buy him a drink to shut him up. Clearly, it hasn’t worked.”

“If anything, it’ll just make me talk more,” Logan smirked.

“Oh, lovely, I can’t wait. Logan, this is Remy, the Marquis de Lafayette and a fellow immigrant.”

“ _Bonsoir, mon ami_ ,” the tall man grinned, enthusiastically shaking his hand. “Any enemy of the King is a friend of mine!”

“The person beside him is Joan Mulligan, they/them pronouns.”

He clasped his hand. “Nice to meet another revolutionary in New York. Can’t have too many of those, in my opinion,” he grinned.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Logan.

Janus sighed. “And, last _and_ least, meet Virgil Laurens, or whatever.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too,” said Virgil. Instead of offering his hand to Logan, he actually shoved them into his pockets, quirking a half-nervous smile. “Welcome to New York… Logan?”

“Yes.” Logan blinked. “I mean, thank you.”

The purple-haired man huffed a laugh. The air between them suddenly drew taut in the brief lull in the conversation. Logan was enamored with the sharp planes of his face, the sliver of his shadowed eyes. _He’s definitely hot…_

“Uh oh,” smirked Remy, sharing a knowing look with Joan.

Virgil snapped back to attention. “Uh oh _what_.”

“Nothing.”

“So!” said Joan, his own smirk lingering, “immigrant, huh? Where are you from?”

“The West Indies,” Logan replied. “I’m studying at King’s College, now. My hometown always told me I had the brains, and I came to New York to refine them and make myself heard.”

“Didn’t we all!” Remy crowed. “I’ll drink to that. Bartender! Shots all around!”

“You got the funds for that, Rem?” Virgil smirked.

“I’ve got more in my pants pockets than you, smartass, not to mention more in my pants in general.”

“The marquis over here is French nobility,” Janus droned into his drink. “If you’re looking for a friend to fund alcohol-induced revolutionary debates, Logan, there’s no one better suited for the job.”

“ _Estranged_ French nobility,” Remy declared. “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my or any king. America is bad enough under your George III, but have you seen the unrest in France? Louis will drive the place to… to…” The Frenchman snapped the air, blanking on the word.

“Destruction?” offered Joan. “Ruin? Chaos?”

“Anarchy?” suggested Logan.

“That’s the one! _Anarchy_ ,” Remy grinned, testing out the foreign word on his tongue. “All kings are the same to me.”

Joan chuckled. “Well, your Louis is gonna have to take a page out of George’s book first. The economy’s already a disaster over here, and shots haven’t even been fired. Sales at the shop are already tanking.”

Logan tipped his head to the side. “You’re a craftsman?”

“Tailor’s apprentice,” he shrugged. “Humble, I know, but hey - the king’s fucking with everyone in every walk of life. Might as well fuck him back.”

“Hear, hear!” Remy cheered.

“Besides, everyone knows joining the rebellion’s a one-way track to social advancement. I don’t wanna sew pants my whole life, you know?”

“I do,” Logan said, his heart flaring with hope and drive, surrounded by the revolutionaries. Young people like him, desperate for change - and freedom.

He looked to Virgil. “And you? Why are you in this fight?”

Virgil cracked a grin. “I mean, I’m all for fucking over the king, but if I’m being honest… the thing I really want to see changed is slavery.”

“Really?”

“It’s a disease. It’s sickening.” Virgil shook his head. “Those in bondage deserve the same rights as the rest of us. If I had my way… you’d see me charging headfirst into the tobacco plantations down south, leading the first all-black battalion. I mean, can you imagine?” 

There was a fire in Virgil’s eyes. Logan was drawn to that blaze, that spark. Hot, yes… but more than that. A kindred spirit.

“How about you, L?” asked Virgil. “Don’t tell me you only came to the colonies while we’re on the brink of war just for school.”

“ _L?_ ” wheezed Remy. “ _Mon dieu_ , he’s giving him nicknames already…”

“No, I… I share all of your opinions on the current situation,” Logan said. “The British monarchy is a pox, their taxation is out of control and the military brutality is abhorrent - and I encourage you not to get me started on the blight of slavery, I’ve gotten into one too many bar fights over the topic already.”

“Abolitionist! He’s one of us!” Joan and Remy chorused. “ _A bunch of revolutionary manumission abolitionists -!_ ”

“ _Please_ , _do_ , start off on another poetry reading at top volume,” muttered Janus with a roll of his eyes.

“Aw, piss off.”

“And here I was, thinking you were only here for the college,” grinned Virgil.

“The situation in the colonies is unsustainable,” said Logan. “There _will_ be a revolution in this century, but my pursuit of education isn’t independent of your cause. I’ve been studying, reading, and writing ever since I got here. It’s going to take a lot more than street action to fix what’s wrong with this country, and I intend to be at the forefront of that change.” He set his chin. “I am not throwing away my shot.”

“Hell yeah!” Joan picked up a shot cup from the bartop and held it out to Logan. “Hope you’ll throw _back_ this shot, though, ‘cause I have a feeling we’re gonna be treating ourselves to a lot of them tonight, huh, fellas?”

“To freedom!” said Remy, hoisting his high. “Something they can never take away!”

“To our newest rebel partner in crime!” Joan hollered. 

“Be gay, do crime!” grinned Virgil before knocking back his own shot. Several other patrons around them took up the toast. “Stick it to the man!”

“ _Geniuses_ ,” snapped Janus, lowering the purple-haired man’s arm. “Would you lower your voices?”

“Oh, for what?” scoffed Joan. “You do know this tavern is the last place any redcoat would hang out, right?”

“Exactly.” 

“ _Janus_ , you’re not a _Loyalist_ , are you?” Virgil mocked.

The man sighed heavily, tipped up his mug, found it empty, and glowered. “Look,” he said, “I’m with you, but all I’m saying is if you keep out of trouble, you’ll double your chances.”

“Eh. We only need one shot to make a difference, isn’t that right, L? And we’re not throwing it away!”

“Affirmative,” he said. “The four of us together have more than enough skills between us to spark change. Lafayette, indeed the Lancelot of the group. Joan has clearly got us _in loco parentis_. And Virgil… well, I… appreciate your company, what little of it I have experienced as of yet.”

“Jesus Christ, there are two of them,” muttered Joan.

Logan ignored the blush that warmed his face and continued, “like you said, we’re a cadre of revolutionary abolitionists, so all that’s standing in our way to freedom is the distance to the nearest ammunition cache. And I say, we make _that_ our first obstacle to overwhelm!”

More cheers from the nearby patrons as Logan knocked back his shot, grimacing at the burn down his throat. Joan whooped. Virgil slung an arm around his shoulders, grinning all the way to his silver eyes. “Let’s get this guy in front of a crowd, huh?” he shouted. “Everybody, tell your brothers, sisters, and nonbinary siblings to rise up!”

“When are these colonies gonna rise up?” Joan chanted, stepping up on a bench. “ _When are these colonies gonna rise up?_ ”

“ _When are these colonies gonna rise up?_ ” The tavern quickly took up the call. All around them, young people shouted to the rafters, thumped their tankards on the tables, punched their fists into the air. 

_I’m past patiently waiting_ , Logan thought to himself, arm in arm with Virgil and grinning wider than he ever had since landing in New York Harbor. _With revolutionary company like this, I’ll be smashing every expectation right alongside them, laughing in the face of casualty and sorrow._

_We’re going to rise up, and we’re going to win._

In the Caribbean, he’d never allowed himself to consider the possibility of a real future. But that was before he came to the colonies, before he enrolled in King’s College, before he met a tavernful of young, scrappy, and hungry people just like him, all chasing their own dreams.

For the first time, Logan Hamilton found himself thinking past tomorrow. And he never, ever wanted to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it begins :)
> 
> This is basically how I'm going to handle the Hamilton lyrics throughout - almost always, I'll work the gist in as unrhymed dialogue or internal thoughts (the poetry readings here are one of the rare instances where I'll quote them verbatim). If you like the style of this fic, please feel free to drop a comment or leave some kudos!
> 
> I plan to update at least a couple times a week, so stay tuned: the Schuyler Siblings are up next...


	2. Work!

“Roman, wait up!”

Patton Schuyler turned around and offered his hand to his younger sibling Talyn as they hurried along behind. “Hurry up, slowpoke,” he smiled, taking their hand in his. “Roman’s on a mission today.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Talyn sniffed.

Ahead of them on the street, lamp-lit in the dusk of New York City, Roman glanced back at his siblings and made an exaggerated sigh. “We’re almost at the commons and all the cute scholar boys will be gone by the time we get there! Hike up your skirts and keep up.”

Patton and Talyn had no choice but to do so, trailing after the swish of Roman’s rose silk gown. Patton couldn’t help but grin. He loved the energy and bustle of New York, especially as the lamps began to light up the streets and towering windows of shops. Carts and horse-drawn carriages ambled down the cobblestones amid the clusters of people milling to and fro.

Talyn threw a glance over their shoulder sticking close to Patton’s side. They frowned at Roman. “Papa said to be home by sundown, you know,” they said.

Roman waved a manicured hand. “Papa’s in the country house right now. He doesn’t need to know what we do when he’s out of town.”

“He also said not to go downtown,” said Talyn. “How far away is this place?”

“Not far.”

“Talyn, if you don’t feel comfortable, you’re still free to go back home,” said Patton with a reassuring smile.

They huffed. “By myself? No way. It’s bad enough there’ll be violence on these shores, but the bigger issue tonight is gonna be keeping Roman out of trouble. You’re gonna need all the help you can get, Pat.”

“I heard that!” called Roman.

Patton just winked at his sibling and looped their arm in his. “Thanks for the help, then, kiddo,” he said.

“You two.” Their older brother spread his arms at the city. “Look around! This is history in the making. People shouting in the square, new ideas circulating with every pamphlet! The revolution is happening right here in our hometown, and you want to miss out on _this_ action?”

“If it keeps us out of danger? Yes.”

“Talyn’s just looking out for you, Ro,” said Patton.

“One warmonger in this family is enough,” they muttered.

Roman shrugged as they rounded a corner, and the scholar’s commons opened up before them. Patton watched his older brother’s green eyes light up with excitement. “Here we are,” he said, conspicuously adjusting his copper hair and casting lowered glances at the young scholars.

Patton raised an eyebrow at a particularly attractive one as he passed them by, then tugged on Roman’s sleeve as he felt himself blush. “Roman,” he said, “remind me what we’re looking for, here?”

“Yeah, I thought you were looking to join the Sons of Liberty,” teased Talyn.

Roman just batted his eyelashes at them and said, “Oh, Patton, honey, the revolution can do without my involvement for one evening of fun. _I’m_ looking for a mind at _work_.”

“Uh-huh,” Patton grinned, crossing his arms.

“Oh, don’t start. I know you’d dissolve into a blushing mess if one of these handsome intellectuals so much as kissed your knuckles, you hopeless romantic. Now straighten your skirts and start looking pretty.”

A whistle drew their attention soon into their foray. A young man with vitiligo down one side of his face cracked a smirk at Roman and approached. “Evening,” he said. “Gentlemen?”

“Two gentlemen, one neither,” said Patton cheerily.

Roman, however, flicked his hand in a shushing motion and leveled the newcomer with a single glance. “Mr. Janus Burr,” he said.

“Correctly guessed.” He cut a bow, his expression like a snake’s. “Now, I couldn’t help but notice from across the path there that your perfume smells like your family’s got money. What’s your name, handsome?”

“Roman.”

“Patton.”

“And Talyn!”

“The _Schuyler_ siblings,” Roman added with a pointed look that clearly said, _We’re out of your league._

Janus didn’t look at all fazed. “Schuylers, huh?” he asked. “What are three lovely debutantes like you doing slumming in the city in those fancy heels? Searching for a… _business_ partner?” His hand inched towards Roman’s with a lazy smile. “You know, I’m a trust fund baby, too.”

Roman curled his lip and yanked his hand out of reach. “Burr,” he said, “you disgust me.”

“Ah, so you’ve discussed me?”

Patton stuck a finger in Janus’ face. “That… was a very good pun,” he said. “I appreciate a good pun. But Roman gave you his answer, mister, so walk away.”

“Fine, fine, just shooting my shot with a fellow gentleman of the revolution,” he said, lifting both palms in defeat. 

“Gentleman of the revolution?” said Roman, putting both hands on his hips.

Janus froze. “I… apologize, are you not-”

“Oh, no you got my gender right, but the _revolution_ isn’t a gentleman’s club.”

Patton and Talyn exchanged a glance. _There he goes, off on one of his tirades._

“I’ll have you know, sir, that I’ve been reading up on Common Sense,” said their oldest brother, prodding Janus’ waistcoat with one finger. “The Declaration of Independence, all the good modern literature. Some men would say I’m intense or insane for this, but what we need at our core isn’t a revolution - it’s a _revelation_.”

“I -”

“I mean, have you _seen_ the gendered wording in our official documents?”

“Well -”

“ _We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal_ ,” quoted Roman with a scoff. “Believe me. When I meet Remus Jefferson, I’ll compel him to include _all_ genders in the next Declaration!”

“Oh, work,” grinned Talyn, snapping their fingers.

Janus was visibly sweating, looking for all the world like he was debating the risk of turning his back on an impassioned Roman Schuyler and baring himself to another attack. “Quite so,” was all he managed to squeak out.

Roman set his chin in victory. “Go on, back to your studies, Mr. Burr. Pass on my wisdom to the rest of your revolutionaries.”

The poor man turned tail. Patton couldn’t help it - he burst into giggles. “Wow,” he said, “you really _Burr_ -ned him!”

“Patton, please,” sighed Roman. “I was just enlightening him to the ways of the modern world.”

“Yeah, and look where that got you on the _mind at work_ front,” said Talyn, rolling their eyes. “You just blew off Janus Burr and scared off every cute guy in a mile radius.”

“Whatever,” he said, smoothing his skirts. “Any man that’s frightened off by gender progressivism isn’t a man worth my time.”

Patton couldn’t help but look around as Roman led the three of them through the commons well into the lamplit night, joining up with groups of young scholars of every gender, flirting with the men, discussing pronouns with the others. Patton didn’t join in much of the talking. He was content to sit back and listen, to watch Roman dazzle the students with his drama and fashion and wit, to watch Talyn jump in with their snappy comebacks.

Some passersby gave the siblings strange looks, which Patton knew from experience were the looks they always got when he and Roman wore dresses. He’d long since learned to ignore them. No one in his family had ever cared that his wardrobe consisted of dresses and breeches alike, and those were the only opinions that mattered to him. He just wore what he liked to wear. He was generally more likely to pick a gown for a fancier event or outing, but that was just because he liked the way they swished across the floor when he danced with handsome gentlemen.

Speaking of…

He did allow himself a couple fleeting glances at the attractive young men they passed. He gave them his name, immediately forgot theirs, absorbed a couple compliments and offered some out himself. Roman was the flirt of the family, but Patton enjoyed it once and a while. It was fun.

What was more fun was imagining which one, if any, he’d eventually wear a wedding gown for. _Oh, to get married, to start a family, to be a pair of fathers living quietly together surrounded by children…_ the thought always made his heart swoon. Money didn’t matter. Status didn’t matter. Whenever Patton thought about his future, he always saw a close-knit family, and that was all that mattered to him.

Talyn finally dragged Roman away around midnight after complaining that their shoes were rubbing blisters all up their heels. Several men offered to walk them home, but Patton declined as politely as he could.

None had stood out as potential suitors, but this was just one outing. There would no doubt be plenty of others in the future. With the war brewing, young people were eager to snatch up a beau before things got serious.

In their shared bedroom, Patton was still thinking about it as he sat on the edge of his narrow bed, swinging his legs in his night shift and smiling to himself.

“Got someone on your mind, Pat?”

Roman sat at his boudoir, taking off his earrings and carefully snapping them into their tiny box. He raised his eyebrow at his younger brother through the mirror.

Patton pushed off the bed. “No, just thinking about how nice it’ll be to have someone to think about someday,” he said. He picked up his silk pillow and hugged it to his chest. “Imagine, having a guy all to myself, someone I can call mine who writes me romantic letters and just sweeps me off my feet.”

“As long as he treats you right. That’s my only condition,” Roman smirked.

“What about you?” Patton asked as he sat down once more, laying the pillow in his lap. “Anyone catch _your_ eye?”

“Not tonight.”

“Really? You were the one dragging us all through Manhattan!”

Roman just shrugged. “We met some very charming gentlemen, that’s true, but none of them really did it for me, you know? I have very high expectations.”

“You should at least give _one_ guy a shot sometime,” said Patton. “You’re never gonna be satisfied, otherwise. What’s the point of going out on the town or attending all those balls and dances if you never take anyone up on their offers?”

“Waiting for someone to give me an offer worth taking.”

Patton rolled his eyes while his brother stood up and flopped backwards onto his own bed with a contented sigh. “What about that Janus Burr fella?”

Roman scoffed. “What about him?”

“He seemed friendly enough, but you blew him off.”

“Janus Burr is a _snake_ ,” he declared. “I love you, Patton, but you’re entirely too sweet and trusting sometimes. That guy was trying to get in my pants - nothing more, nothing less - absolutely _not_ trying to be friendly. Besides, he’s not nearly revolutionary enough for my tastes.”

Patton frowned. “Geez… Don’t you worry you set the bar too high?”

“Nah. The man of my dreams is out there somewhere, I just know it. I’ll find him when I’m meant to find him.” Tilting his head, he smiled at his brother and added, “And so will you, with the man of yours.”

“You think so?” he smiled.

“Pat, you’re a _catch_. I know so. And if you ever need help talking to a guy who sweeps you off your feet, you know I’ve always got your back.”

His heart lifted. “Thanks, Ro.”

“You know it. Anytime.”

His brother blew out the oil lamps and they both tucked in for the night, seeing as it was well past midnight and even the debutante Roman was exhausted after his day of flirting. Patton, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to fall asleep as easily. His mind was awhirl with hopes and possibilities of the future. _Courtship… marriage… fatherhood… I want it all._

He drifted off to sleep, wondering what kind of man might someday fill that place in his dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The board is set. All the players are on the field...


	3. A Fully Armed Battalion

Logan, Virgil, and Remy watched the Loyalist protester pack up his podium crate amid the boos and hisses of other revolutionary passers-by. Remy cackled to himself and slapped Logan on the back.

“Chalk up one more decisive victory for the revolutionary terror of New York!” he crowed. “May the public humiliation of Samuel Seabury be a warning to all cowardly Loyalists in our fair city.”

“I don’t see why he was so surprised to be met with opposition, our tavern stomping ground is only a block away,” said Logan cooly.

“I think he was more surprised to run into someone that can pontificate even more words than him,” smirked Virgil. 

“Please,” Logan scoffed. “All he did was repeat himself. A dog could speak more eloquently, and their mange would be the same.”

Beside him, Virgil softly brushed his knuckles against Logan’s. “You did good, L,” he said.

Logan fought a smile at the gesture and merely flicked his eyebrows. “Again,” he shrugged. “Loyalist clod was asking for a good knocking-down. I don’t know how anyone could possibly listen to his drivel with a straight face.”

“ _I_ thought he was about to shit himself when you screamed… what was that word you shrieked in his face, _ami_?” asked Remy.

“Falsehood?”

“That’s it!”

“Oh, _that_ was hilarious,” Virgil grinned. 

Remy caught sight of someone down the street and his mischievous smile widened. “Well, well, look who decided to join the party!” he called.

“Hey, Joan,” said Virgil.

Indeed, their nonbinary friend appeared, newspaper rolled up in one hand. They glanced at the remains of the Loyalist’s picket. “Did I miss something?” they asked.

“ _Did you miss something_.” The Frenchman scoffed. “Logan just beat the verbal shit out of another Loyalist picketer.”

“Damn. Hey,” said Joan, whipping open the newspaper’s front page, “speaking of beating the verbal shit out of the British, apparently the colonial assemblies have been doing the same thing. The king just sent out another letter of warning and I don’t think he’s fucking around anymore.”

“Good,” said Virgil.

“Did he declare war?” asked Logan.

“Not yet, but he’s seriously pissed.”

“Save us the toil of having to read the tyrant’s words ourselves,” said Remy. “You are an actor, Joan. Regale us with the summary.”

They raised an eyebrow. “Summary, you say? Well, if you insist,” they smirked, handing the paper to Remy. They shrugged off their coat and whipped it around to drape across their shoulders like the mink cape of George III.

“Aha, the King is in Jersey after all!” whooped Remy.

King Joan smirked, throwing aloft a hand and slathering an uppity sneer across his face. “You say,” he drawled. “the price of my love is not a price that you’re willing to pay anymore? You say your love has drained and you cannot go on? Dearest America, I am hurt!”

“ _The voice_ ,” Virgil wheezed, and Logan found himself unable to contain his own grin. Joan was a masterful actor, and their rendition of the king’s thick accent was comedy at its finest.

“Why so sad, dearest?” asked King Joan with an exaggerated frown. “Why the tears shed into the tea you then hurl into the Boston Harbor? It’s not like my little Stamp Act is a detriment upon _literally every industry and sector of colonial life._ Don’t you know that you’re still my favorite subjects? My sweet, submissive, loyal, unquestionable, adoring, lucrative, darling subjects, forever and ever and ever and ever and ever?”

Logan snorted.

King Joan ruffled his coat. “Well, it’s no matter. I didn’t love you that much anyway, either. You’ll be back. We’ll see who’s _really_ complaining when I’m gone.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Logan.

“Or do,” Virgil smirked.

“Oh, believe me, I will. I’ll go mad when you’re gone, dearest, and you don’t want to see me mad. Oceans rise, empires fall, and this little rebellion of yours will burn itself out in no time if it knows what’s best for it.”

Remy crossed his arms. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Well,” said King Joan, “if push truly does come to shove… I _will_ send a fully armed battalion to kill all your friends and family.” They shrugged with a coy little smile. “You know. Just to remind you of my love.”

Logan and Virgil shared a glance. Dropping the act of playing along, Logan asked, “So he really is threatening war?”

Joan nodded, abandoning the king’s persona. “Well, if that warning of the king’s is to be believed… yeah. We’re at a breaking point. Something’s gonna give, and soon - and when it does, gentlemen, we’ll have our fight laid out for us.”

“Great Britain has the most powerful military on the planet,” said Virgil. 

“But we can take them,” said Logan. “When the time comes, the four of us will be all set to rise through the ranks, and we’ll help purge this British infestation from our lands once and for all.”

* * *

The shots at Lexington and Concord were heard around the world less than a year after that.

And Great Britain went to war with its own American colonies.

British Admiral Howe moved thirty two thousand troops into New York Harbor. The Continental Congress scrambled to organize its forces into a united army that could stand a chance against the number one military power in the world, and a Continental Army was formed. And the man promoted to the rank of top general?

None other than French and Indian War veteran Thomas Washington.

Thomas was honored by the promotion, and even more honored by the shining words his troops wrote about his accomplishments, but as the colonies dove headfirst into war, Thomas quickly ran out of time to spend dwelling on their praise.

From the get-go, their outlook was very, very bad.

The British took Brooklyn almost without breaking a sweat. City streets erupted into cannonfire and musket pops ricocheting off every wall. Fire burst like flower buds, redcoats tramped in formation through the streets, artillery sent arcs of explosive death sailing overhead from the forts and surrounding hills. The Continental Army was outgunned, outmanned, and overwhelmingly outnumbered. 

And that wasn’t even mentioning the _deserting_.

Thomas stood over the carnage of their latest battlefield. In the distance was Kip’s Bay, abandoned by his own men in the face of the British advance. Some retreated to Harlem with the rest of the army, but many simply dropped their muskets altogether and fled to the countryside. Too many. Every battle, every skirmish, Thomas almost lost more men to desertion than he did to enemy fire.

In the face of such mass mutiny, the general wanted to scream.

_Are these the men with which I am to defend America?_ He thought bitterly to himself, trudging back to his encampment that night. 

As he passed through the tents, his battered soldiers glanced up from their cooking fires and cracked smiles at him, waving their caps in salute. Thomas always offered them a smile and wave in return. He had no grievance against the individual men themselves, just… the morale. The collective mindset. Unfortunately, he just didn’t have the time or resources to devote towards changing it. He was spread too thin as it was.

_If I had more officers I could trust, a couple aide-de-camps…_

_No, more than that. I need a right hand man._

* * *

“Your Excellency, sir.”

Thomas looked up from his papers to see a young man with vitiligo dividing his face standing in his doorway. Thomas blinked. “Who are you?”

“Apologies. My name is Janus Burr,” said the man, sweeping a bow. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I have an offer for you, if you’ll grant me permission to state my case.”

“Granted,” said Thomas.

Janus nodded. He folded his hands behind his back. “Sir, I was a captain under General Montgomery in Quebec before his… untimely expiration. I believe I may be of some assistance to the Continental Army’s cause. I know that you’ve faced some criticism about your decisions to fire on the British from a distance, but I admire the tactic. I see the potential.”

Thomas raised a brow. 

“Anyway,” he said, “I won’t take up too much of your time. I only wanted to let you know that I might have a suggestion or two about how the army might be able to fight instead of fleeing west -”

“Your Excellency?”

Thomas rose from his seat as the man he’d really been waiting to see stuck his head in the door. Janus turned and blinked at the newcomer.

Logan Hamilton was young, like Janus; dark hair meticulously combed but brown eyes alight with energy behind his glasses. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“Logan Hamilton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come in. Good to meet you at last,” Thomas smiled. “Have you met Janus Burr?”

The two young men shared a quick glance. “Yes, sir, we have,” said Logan.

“We do seem to just keep meeting,” replied Janus, just as tightly. He looked back to Thomas. “As I was saying, sir, I am a proponent of your strategy -”

“Janus, I’m glad you have some ideas to further our army’s progress,” said Thomas, “truly, I am, and I’d love to hear them some other time. But I was actually waiting to meet with Logan when you arrived, I’m sorry.”

Janus pressed his lips together in a firm, dismissive line. “I see,” he said, flicking a look towards Logan. “Well. I wouldn’t want to disturb you, then. I’ll take my leave.”

“And, if you’d be so kind, Janus… would you mind closing the door on your way out?” Thomas asked.

“Oh. Not at _all_.” 

The door snapped shut behind him.

Logan folded his hands behind him, all but straining on the balls of his feet with anticipation. “Have I done something wrong, sir?” he asked. 

Thomas just smiled and led the young man to the chair opposite his desk. “On the contrary,” he assured him, settling in his own seat. “In fact, I called you here because your reputation on the battlefield precedes you, and with odds being the way they are… I think there could be good use for you in my command.”

Logan’s expression lit up, but Thomas watched him vainly school it back into calm professionalism. _He’s motivated. Young, scrappy, and hungry, just the kind of person any good revolution needs in its ranks in droves. The kind of person who’s got the drive to make real change._

“I’m… honored you’ve heard of me, sir,” was all he said.

“You’re a young man of great renown, Logan, your name is being passed around many revolutionary circles nowadays. You stole British cannons when our forces were still defending New York, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes. In the company of some friends of mine.”

“You did this army a service. I heard that Nathaniel Greene and Henry Knox both wanted to hire you.” Thomas settled his chin in his hand as he studied the young man. “I am curious, though. Why didn’t you accept either of their positions?”

Logan set his jaw. “They sought me only as a secretary, sir,” he said. “We’re in the middle of a once-in-a-lifetime revolution, I wasn’t about to just swallow that indecency if that was all they could offer me.”

He raised a brow at the sudden bite in his words. “Indecency? What’s so indecent about a secretary position? For a man of your penmanship abilities, I’d say that’s a prime job. Keeps you out of harm’s way.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask to be coddled,” Logan scoffed. “I’m a skilled writer, but that’s not the skill that gets someone ahead in a war, sir.”

_Ah. Ambitious, too._

“True enough,” he nodded. “You know, Logan, you remind me a lot of myself at your age. Head full of fantasies about martyrdom and honorable death, I imagine?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

He hummed. “Let me tell you something about that. Dying is easy, young man. _Living_ is the hard part. It requires the most work, but it comes with the most reward in the end.”

Logan frowned. “Why… are you telling me this, sir?”

Thomas sighed, spreading his hands across his desk. “I’m sure you’ve seen what I’m working with. Desertion. Rampant low morale. Nonexistent supplies. Minimal public approval, at least where it matters when it comes to keeping an army moving. Not to mention, I’m only working with a third of the resources the Continental Congress promised us.”

“Have you demanded the rest of their bargain?” he insisted.

“I don’t have the time or energy myself. I need someone to take some of this responsibility off my shoulders so I can focus my energy into winning this war.” He raised his eyebrows at the young man. “I need someone like _you_.”

Logan stared at him for a long moment. As though racking up the numbers in his head. Weighing the possibilities.

“I’m offering you a position as a senior aide-de-camp. You’ll be my right hand man. Do you think you’d be up to the challenge?”

“Yes,” whispered Logan. He shook his head and repeated, more firmly, “Yes, sir. _Absolutely_. I’ll write to Congress for you, bully your supplies out of them, organize your information… you’re going to need all the help you can get, too. I have some friends from New York who could help out immensely. We should also look into securing spies on the inside…”

Thomas grinned, watching the young man spin strategies and procedures. Already, his fresh and eager mind was pulling pieces together that Thomas’s own exhausted one had hardly had the time to consider before.

_This is him. This is the man I want by my side._

“When do we start, sir?” Logan asked, stopping himself mid-rant and gripping the armrests.

Thomas stood and lifted a blue officer’s jacket off the peg on the wall. He held it out to him.

“Right now. Welcome to the Continental Army."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I am an Analogical stan, unfortunately it's just going to be subtext for the most part in this particular fic... the boys will still have soft moments ahead don't worry... 
> 
> Kudos/comments if you so desire! They make my day :)


	4. 1780, A Winter's Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my soft little fic can provide you, dear readers, with even a small bit of happiness and respite from the terrors that are our current events these days, then that is more than enough for me. Please stay safe and stay strong. This too shall pass - there WILL come an end to the suffering.
> 
> For now, take heart in the softness that is Logicality fluff.

It was an honor, being named Thomas Washington’s senior aide-de-camp. Really, it was. Logan counted himself exceedingly fortunate that he’d even been offered the position at all. The status at the right hand of the general… an immigrant could hardly even dream of anything more.

Except, of course, a ranked officer position.

Which all of his friends had been offered. And accepted.

“Do _not_ tell me you’re still sour over your insane promotion,” Virgil said as the revolutionary squad and Janus made their way through the flurrying snowflakes to the well-lit windows of the ballroom, casting golden light on the soft, fallen snowbanks.

Logan sighed. “I am not _sour_.”

“Please,” Janus smirked. “If you were any more bitter, you’d be the star ingredient of a lemonade.”

“Janus, remind me again why we are being honored by your company on this excursion?” 

Remy threw back his head in a loud whoop of glee. “He _is_ still sour!” he cackled. “Lemonade indeed!”

“Come now, Logan, I’m here for a good time, same as you,” said Janus, patting his shoulder. “This is no night to be dwelling on military semantics.”

“Yeah, Logan, loosen up!” grinned Joan, elbowing him on the other side. Logan merely sighed.

Inside, though, he did feel a flicker of excitement. In the middle of a lull in fighting, a winter’s ball was entertainment the young friends could hardly pass up. All of them were dressed in their best and sharpest uniforms for the event.

“All the well-to-do’s of New York, combatant and noncombatant alike, are right through those doors,” said Janus. “Plenty of gallant fellows, lovely ladies, and charming nonbinary debutantes, just waiting for us fine soldiers to sweep them off their feet.”

“And plenty of refreshments waiting for my tankard,” said Remy, who felt no attraction to debutantes of any gender.

Janus hummed. “Speaking of refreshments, I heard the Schuyler siblings are going to be the envy of the ball, so if any of you gentlemen spot Roman, give me fair warning to escape so I might avoid another verbal assault.”

“The Schuyler siblings?” asked Logan. “Relatives of the revered General Emile Schuyler?”

“His children,” said Janus. “Pretty enough, all three of them, but the eldest and I don’t get along very well so I’ll be keeping my distance, thank you very much.”

“They’re loaded, though,” said Joan with a knowing tilt of the eyebrows. 

Remy nodded. “General Schuyler is a wealthy, wealthy man.”

“Can you imagine if one of us snagged a sibling?” said Virgil with a whistle. “Man, if you can marry one of _them_ , you’re set for life on the dowry alone.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

Logan considered this tidbit of information as the group ascended the steps to the ballroom doors and brushed snow off their shoulders. As an immigrant, Logan had come to the colonies with barely enough money in his pockets to get by. _Maybe I ought to see if I can introduce myself to a Schuyler tonight…_

Then Remy pushed open the doors, and the group swept into the music, silk, and jewels of the gilded winter’s ball.

* * *

Patton had never been the type to grab the spotlight at one of these glamorous social parties, but he was plenty content to watch Roman do so. His older brother practically seemed to glow from the attention, beaming disarmingly at every handsome fellow on the swirling dance floor. Everywhere he stepped, Roman Schuyler dazzled the entire room in his sunset-pink silk gown.

Patton had opted for sea-foam green for his own dress. Roman always said that aquas and pale blues accentuated his eyes best, and Roman always knew best when it came to fashion. 

Several other young party guests had approached Patton to compliment that very style choice, in fact. Patton took them up on their offers for a dance or two, accepted a flute of wine here and there, but just like in the commons, none of the gentlemen really grabbed Patton’s attention for longer than a song. Mostly, he was content to stand aside while the dancers wined and dined around him.

A slight gust of cool air winding between the partygoers heralded the opening of the front doors. Snowflakes drifted into the warm ballroom around the newest cluster of arrivals. _Soldier boys_ , Patton noted with interest as he caught the flash of polished brass buttons and pressed, tailored shoulders in Continental blue. 

Then his eyes locked onto the young man pulling up the rear of the group, and with a gasp, his heart absolutely _stopped_.

He was _gorgeous._

Tall and slender. Soft dark hair brushed off his forehead. Dreamlike candlelight gilding the planes of his face, the cut of his uniform, making glimmering reflections at the edges of his glasses. 

And _beautiful_ eyes. Dark and alluring, with such an attentive sharpness as his gaze swept across the ballroom. 

A brief gap between the dancers. Suddenly, that gaze met Patton’s, and the beautiful soldier stilled too. His focus, completely arrested on _him_. 

They held each other’s gazes from across the room.

Patton’s heart had, at some point, figured out how to do its job again, and had kicked into high gear to make up for all the beats it skipped. He touched his fingertips to his chest and could feel the racing beat through the sea-foam silk. Only one thought filled his mind.

_This one’s mine._

As quickly as it happened, the swirling dancers closed the gap between them once again. Patton only caught sight of another soldier dragging the beautiful man away by the elbow before someone’s elaborately festooned tricorn hat blocked Patton’s view of them altogether.

Patton was still reeling. He felt his face - hot as coals. Probably just as strikingly scarlet as it felt. He shook his head, pressing his palms to his cheeks in an effort to cool himself down.

His heartbeat did not let up its hammering pace.

 _Get a grip_ , he chastised himself. He shook out his hands and took a deep, deep breath. Another. Steadying himself after the very sight of that man had flipped his whole world on end. _He’s in attendance at this ball tonight. It should be a piece of cake to find him again._

Patton gave a preliminary glance across the ballroom. Almost every single man in attendance wore the Continental blue soldier’s uniform. Heads of hair of every color and texture blended together. 

And the man at the doors was nowhere to be easily seen.

_So… maybe not a piece of cake after all._

Undaunted, Patton smoothed his skirts and began to scour the room in pursuit.

* * *

Roman could have recognized Janus Burr’s face anywhere. He was standing in the company of several other soldiers. Smirking to himself, he excused his hand from the grip of some other fawning gentleman and swept his way across the ballroom.

“Why, Janus Burr, what a fortuitous surprise,” he purred.

The soldier’s head whipped around at the sound of his voice, and he immediately sniffed. “Roman,” he said icily. 

“No suave pickup this time around?” Roman raised a brow.

“Such respects are only due to those who I know won’t bite my head off at the wrong word,” Janus retorted.

The bespectacled soldier standing at Janus’ side crossed his arms with intrigue. “You two have a history, I presume?” he asked.

Roman took one look at him and felt his heart flare warm in his chest. This soldier was _strikingly_ handsome, all cool edges and intelligent eyes. Roman quickly recovered from his split second of distraction and flashed him a winning smirk. “Could you tell?” 

“It’s not of a romantic variety, Virgil,” clipped Janus to another one of his friends, “so you might as well return those eyebrows to their natural location on your face.”

“Oh, he tried to flirt at first, but I’m afraid he just didn’t impress me.” Roman leaned in towards the bespectacled soldier to deliver his conspiratory aside, and he counted it an internal victory as the man leaned his head in towards him, too. “I may have berated him in the middle of a parkful of his college friends a long time ago. He’s avoided me ever since.”

“A streak I have no intention of breaking tonight.” Clapping his companions on the shoulder, Janus pressed a flat smile. “It’s the refreshment table for us, friends. _So_ lovely to see you again, Roman, _as_ always.”

“Likewise,” said Roman. 

As Janus led his friends away from the dance floor, the bespectacled soldier surprised Roman by lingering back. He folded his arms behind his back, tipped his head Roman’s way, and asked, “Pronouns?”

Roman blinked. Momentarily caught off-guard - again - he somehow found his voice. “You… mean mine?”

“If it’s not too forward.”

He felt a faint blush bloom in his cheeks. “He/him,” he said, a bit softer than he’d anticipated. “Yours?”

“The same.”

Roman exhaled a small laugh. “I apologize for the hesitation, not many of the people here have asked me that tonight.”

“Understandable. I merely wanted to be sure,” he said with the barest crack of a smile. “So, the prodigy of Princeton College himself is deemed unimpressive, is he?”

“Who, Janus?” He shrugged. “Oh, I’d heard of his brain, but his game was lackluster in person, I’m afraid.”

He hummed in amusement. “I suppose that checks out. You do strike me as a man who’s never been satisfied.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Roman, glancing off tactfully at the crowd and ignoring the blush that was _definitely_ creeping up his neck at the double entendre. “You forget yourself, sir.”

“I apologize, please don’t assume I meant any offense,” he said. “I speak with utmost honesty when I say that you remind me of myself, actually. I never seem to be satisfied, either.”

The soldier glanced through the crowd - just the briefest look, but Roman could have sworn it was directed at the purple-haired soldier at the refreshments table, the one Janus had called Virgil. _An old paramour, perhaps._

_Implying that he’s on the lookout for another…_

Roman eyed him up and down in the aloof manner that he knew made boys crazy. “I don’t think I quite caught your name,” he said. “Mine is Roman Schuyler.”

The last name clicked in the soldier’s mind, as Roman knew it would. He saw the spark of recognition in those dark eyes. “Logan Hamilton,” he replied.

“Well met,” said Roman. “Hamilton. I don’t recognize that name, where’s your family from?”

“Unimportant.” 

At the question, Logan suddenly seemed ill at ease, looking askance and setting his jaw. Roman knew that look, paired with a cagey response like that one. _Penniless_ , he deduced, studying his face. _But whip-smart. Definitely college educated, with that vocabulary of his. Ambitious, for sure. Progressive regarding gender._

_And oh, is he handsome on top of it all…_

Roman realized at that moment, gazing at the soft line of his lips, that it would be very, _very_ easy to fall hard and fast for a man like Logan Hamilton.

“My family is of little consequence,” the soldier eventually continued, coldly adjusting the cuffs of his coat. “I intend to make my own way in the world of my own merit, regardless of my external connections.”

“Noble,” said Roman. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Mr. Hamilton - even just asking for pronouns these days will get you ahead of plenty of people, if that’s your goal.”

Logan’s hardened expression softened just the smallest bit. “Thank you, Mr. Schuyler.”

Roman smiled. “Let me grab you a drink, and then I’d actually like to talk with you a little more,” he said. “If you’d be interested.”

“I’d like that very much,” he said.

 _The softness in his voice, the eye contact, the smallest pull of a smile… oh, that hypothetical “falling hard and fast” is really starting to look less and less hypothetical…_ “I promise, I’ll be back in half a second,” he winked, then slipped back through the crowd of silk skirts and coattails, his heart fluttering in his chest.

It was like lightning to a key on a kite. Roman had never felt like this about anyone before. Never felt that immediate spark of attraction, never felt it reciprocated just as quickly. A bit of a flirt, of course, but it was all part of the posture, the dance, of courtship.

For the first time, Roman felt like he might just want to give it a chance.

As soon as he reached the refreshment table, however, a flash of sea-foam caught the corner of his eye. 

_Patton._

Roman frowned, setting down the wineglass he’d been about to fill. His brother was lingering on the edge of the dance floor, leaning this way and that, as though scouring the whirl of faces with increased desperation. A sharp, anxious crease marked the space between his brows. His freckled fists were bunched in his skirt, tight enough to almost certainly leave wrinkles when he unclenched them.

He looked _helpless._

All thoughts of Logan immediately fled Roman’s brain, and he was at his brother’s side in a moment. “Patton-cake, you okay?” he asked.

Patton jumped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Sorry. You scared me.”

“What in the world has got you in such a fluster?”

His younger brother sighed. He almost seemed to deflate. “It’s silly,” he murmured, gesturing aimlessly. “It’s just… well, I saw this one guy walk in a little while ago, and I think he saw me from across the ballroom, but then his friends pulled him away and I haven’t been able to find him since.”

 _Ah._ “Cute guy?” he asked.

“Oh, Roman, he was _beautiful_.”

Roman looked over his shoulder to where Logan was standing by the frosted windows. _I know that feeling._ “Well,” he said, “I’ve got a fellow in the wings who can wait a bit longer for his wine. Let’s see if we can’t find this mystery guy of yours first.”

“Thanks, Ro,” said Patton, but his gaze still drifted out across the party guests. 

“Do you remember what he looked like? Was he one of those soldier boys that have been tripping over themselves to win our praise all night?”

“I think so,” said Patton. “I only saw him for a minute. Army uniform, tall, slender, dark hair, glasses -”

Patton suddenly cut himself off with the barest intake of breath, freezing in his tracks, his eyes pinned to something beyond the crowd. His blue eyes were wide as saucers. “There he is,” he whispered, barely audible over the top-volume band.

“Where?”

“Over there,” he breathed. “Alone. By the windows.”

Roman followed his gaze, and his entire body immediately went cold as lead.

_Logan._

_He’s… he’s staring at Logan._

Patton hardly seemed to be breathing, but the tiny smile gracing his face was enough to turn the winter to spring. “Isn’t he just the most gorgeous guy you’ve ever seen, Roman?” he gushed. “Oh, look at those eyes…”

Roman was rooted to the spot. Cold, iron claws gripped his heart, tighter and tighter as he took in his brother’s whipped expression and stared at the soldier by the windows, who didn’t seem to have spotted either of them.

In that moment, three fundamental things became jarringly, unconditionally clear.

The first: as the eldest child of Emile Schuyler, Roman had a duty to his father and his family to marry someone of equal or greater wealth. To climb the social ladder for the rest of his siblings. Witty, charming Roman Schuyler had _always_ been destined for one of the rich young gentlemen on the dance floor - that was something that had never changed, and would never change.

And Logan Hamilton had no wealth to his name at all.

_Not that it makes me want him any less…_

The second realization followed immediately upon the heels of that thought: Logan had definitely appeared to want Roman just as much, but there was an ulterior motive beyond mere attraction. There had to be. Roman had seen it the moment his famous last name left his lips, that spark of recognition. Roman was a Schuyler, and a connection to any Schuyler meant elevated status. Renown.

And _money_.

“Roman?”

Patton had finally torn his eyes from the soldier by the windows, his smile fading as he took in Roman’s ashen expression. Looking into his younger brother’s eyes, the final realization hit him like a blow to the gut.

_I know my brother like I know my own mind, and if I tell him right now that I love Logan, he’d stop his own pursuit in its tracks. Three words, and Logan would be mine, no questions asked. Patton would pretend he’d never caught sight of him across the ballroom, pretend it hadn’t been love at first sight._

_But he would be lying. And it would kill him for the rest of his life._

Roman knew what he had to do.

So he made himself smile. Forced his shoulders to relax. Shoved himself back into his usual charming ballroom persona. “Some good taste you’ve got there, Pat,” he winked. “He sure is cute.”

“Isn’t he?” Patton gripped Roman’s wrist. “Help me introduce myself before some other guy does? I don’t think I can do it alone, I might just faint.”

Roman knew. In the face of new cute guys, his little brother was a blushing mess. He patted his cheek gently. “Sure,” he said. “You stay here, I’ll bring him over. Sound good?”

“Thanks, Roman,” Patton gushed, hugging him quick and tight around his middle in a rush of sea-foam silk and golden-brown hair, then released him, beaming like the sun.

Roman’s heart had never felt more in the darkness. 

The music and dancing partners around him felt more and more like a dull background noise of blurring colors with every step he took closer to the windows. Logan caught sight of him breaking through the crowd. The soldier’s dark brows lifted just a fraction. 

“I thought you promised drinks,” he said.

Heart wrenching, Roman just grabbed him by the arm with a smirk that felt far too hollow. “I’ve got something even better for you, actually,” he said. “Follow me.”

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, his intrigued smile only growing.

Roman just cast him one last smile over his shoulder. “Logan Hamilton, I’m about to change your life.”

* * *

Patton watched Roman take the soldier’s arm from across the ballroom and was immediately convinced that he was about to whisk him off for himself, because why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t _any_ self-respecting man-loving person, when they’ve got a guy _that handsome_ on their arm?

But then that guy caught sight of exactly where Roman was leading him, and for a moment, it was that split second at the front doors all over again. He looked into his eyes and suddenly Patton was down for the count, drowning in them.

Helpless _,_ but in the best possible way.

“I’d like to introduce you to someone,” said Roman, pulling them both free of the dance floor as the song ended and applause went up around them. 

His brother nodded at him, and Patton quickly gathered his skirts and dipped his head in a curtsey, feeling the blood rush into his face. “Patton Schuyler,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The young man glanced to Roman. “Schuyler?”

“My brother,” said Roman with a smile. “He/him. Pat, this is Logan Hamilton.”

Logan offered Patton his hand. “The pleasure is mine,” he said, brushing a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

Somehow, Patton managed to gather his thoughts and asked, “You’re a soldier, I assume?”

“I am,” he said. Maybe it was the candlelight, but Logan’s face looked warm, too. His movements were endearingly awkward, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with himself while face-to-face with him. “I’m an aide-de-camp to General Washington. His senior aide-de-camp, actually…”

Patton beamed in what was hopefully an encouraging way. “How exciting,” he said. “Thank you for all your service, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Logan,” he insisted. _Oh, his face is definitely red, look how cute_ … “And… if it takes fighting a war for us to meet, then it will have been worth it,” he added.

Patton just about fainted. Honestly, the sky was the limit in that moment.

“Well,” said Roman, clasping his hands in front of him, pressing a thin smile, “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll catch up with you later, Patton?”

“Oh, definitely, yes,” he nodded.

“Alright. Have fun,” he said, and then Roman slunk silently back into the crowd, leaving Patton and Logan standing by themselves by the gilded wall.

Logan coughed into his fist. “Your, ah… your dress is lovely, Mr. Schuyler.”

“Patton.” He shrugged. “If… we’re both going to be on a first name basis.”

“... Patton.”

“And… thank you,” he said, weaving one arm behind his back to take hold of his opposite elbow. The first chords of a new song filled the ballroom, and Patton tipped his head to the side, offering the blushing soldier a smile. “Would you… care to dance?” 

He held out his hand. Logan stared at it, then blinked. “I… yes,” he said. He fitted his warm palm overtop Patton’s, and they stepped into the sea of couples. 

The night slipped into a glittering montage of color and music and exhilaration. Patton and Logan shared a dance, then another, then another, until he could hardly tell where one song ended and another began. Patton lost himself in the steady touch of Logan’s palm at his lower back, the fit of their hands, the light reflecting in his eyes.

Brown eyes, Patton deduced, when they’d abandoned the dance floor at one point to sip refreshments, brows glistening with fine sweat. Once they got past the initial awkwardness of one another’s company, conversation flowed between them as freely as wine. Patton charmed him with witty puns, and Logan regaled him with tales from his life.

He was an immigrant from the West Indies and had been a student at King’s College when the war broke out. As General Thomas Washington’s senior aide-de-camp, he served the Continental Army as a secretary and military organizer - a role Logan appeared to be dissatisfied with. 

“What would you rather be?” Patton asked.

Logan’s eyes lit up, almost sparkling at the thought of his dream. “A troop commander,” he said. “Leading my men into battle. Seeing my name slashed across every headline in the country, right alongside praise of my victory.”

“That sounds terribly grand,” he grinned. “I don’t think I could ever do something like that, I’d be too scared of getting hurt in battle.”

“Not me,” he shook his head. “There’s a million things I haven’t done, but just you wait - someday, everyone’s going to know my name.”

Patton had grown up around the oldest wealthy families in New York colony. Never before had he heard anyone speak of ambition the way Logan did, and it was fascinating to hear him ramble on and on about his aspirations.

Patton could listen to him ramble for ages.

The ball wound down somewhere deep into the small hours of the morning, but Patton barely felt exhausted at all. He didn’t even shiver when he stepped outside into the snow flurries with Logan and drew his heavy cloak about his shoulders. His heart alone was on fire.

“Patton,” said Logan. _And oh, I could get used to the way this man says my name…_ “Would you be opposed to the idea of me writing you a letter sometime, while I’m away at war?”

Patton blinked. _He wants to write me letters he wants to write me letters he wants to write me letters…_ “I… no, not at all,” he laughed. “I’d… really love to hear from you again.”

“Good,” he nodded, lingering somewhat awkwardly as though there was something else on the tip of his tongue.

Patton narrowed his eyes playfully. “Is there something else?”

Logan swallowed. “There… is,” he said, clearing his throat. “Before you go… I’d very much like to kiss you, if that’s not too forward of me to say.” His brown gaze searched Patton’s. “If you’d be willing. I… may I?”

Gazing up at him, Patton’s heart pounded so loudly he was surprised no one else could hear it. Slowly, he dipped his chin in the smallest nod. “Yes,” he whispered.

One more moment of eye contact. Then it was like lightning jolted straight into Patton’s chest as he felt himself lean in, closer to Logan’s lips. Let his eyelids drift closed.

Then their mouths met, soft and chaste in the gentle flurry of midnight snowfall, and Patton knew he never wanted to be anywhere else for as long as he lived.

* * *

After the first letter made its way to the Schuyler doorstep after the ball, it only took a week for Logan’s writings to become a daily appearance. Every night, Patton stayed up late poring over the endless cascade of words and penning his own in response. He could never seem to keep up with his soldier’s quill.

Roman and Talyn seemed to find endless amusement in Patton’s adoration. “My God, Patton,” Talyn said when the fifth letter in a row arrived, “it’d take a miracle for this man of yours to even have time to do his actual job, with all the time he must spend writing these _books_.”

“I’ll say,” grinned Roman, holding up pages two through six of his latest letter. “Looks to me like there’s more than enough Logan Hamilton to go around.”

“Moving in on his man already, are you, Ro?” teased Talyn.

Patton raised a teasing eyebrow his brother’s way. Roman just held up his hands. “I’m just _saying_ ,” he winked, “if you really loved me, Pat, you’d share him. Just a little.”

That always got Patton to laugh.

The courtship proceeded much in that way. Letter after letter after letter. On the occasions when the Schuylers found themselves nearby the Continental Army’s camp, Patton made it a point to visit Logan there as often as he could. Every time, Logan always brightened upon seeing him. He showed him around the headquarters, introduced him to General Thomas, and explained the inner workings of the army to Patton’s eternal fascination.

And, naturally, they snuck kisses where they could - behind the farmhouses, amid a copse of trees, alone in Logan’s secretary office.

Until one day, Patton opened the doors of the Schuyler house to see his handsome soldier standing there on his front stoop, smiling bashfully with his hat in his hand.

“Lo,” Patton beamed. 

“Salutations,” he replied, somewhat awkwardly.

He quickly ushered him in from the cold outside, brushing snow off his shoulders. “This is a lovely surprise,” he said, “though I apologize, we aren’t all that prepared for guests, the banisters haven’t been dusted for at least a day or two and this isn’t nearly my most presentable waistcoat.” He placed both hands on his hips, pleased with his progress. “How’d you convince Thomas to give you a vacation from the army?”

“I’m not here on a vacation,” Logan admitted. “Patton… where is your father?”

Patton blinked. “His office upstairs.”

“Would you perhaps do me the greatest of favors in bringing him down here?” He swallowed, steeling himself. “I have a… very serious matter to discuss with him today.”

Patton stared at him for a long moment. “Lo,” he whispered, “Lo, are you…”

“Please retrieve General Schuyler,” was all he said, but the fleeting smile he sent him was answer enough.

Which was how, several hours later, Patton found himself perched on the edge of a decorative seat, worrying his fingertips to his mouth as he stared across the hall and into the sitting room where Logan and his father had been in deep discussion for far too long. Roman, in breeches and a white waistcoat and to match Patton’s gray one that day, was leaning one shoulder against the wall beside him.

“They must have come to a decision by now, right?” Patton stressed. 

“Pat, it’s gonna be okay,” said Roman. His older brother seemed more distant that day, ever since he’d heard what Logan had showed up to do. “Logan’s a great guy. You know Father will love him.”

“Then what’s taking them so long? Logan hasn’t been spending this whole time trying to _convince_ Father to accept him as his son-in-law, has he?”

Suddenly, their father rose from his chair and crossed the room to Logan’s side. Patton shot to his feet and grabbed Roman’s hand in a vise grip.

“Well,” murmured Roman, “if he was… we’re about to find out if he succeeded.”

And then, the Schuyler patriarch cracked a smile and shook Logan’s hand. The young soldier’s entire body immediately sagged with relief. Patton’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, _disbelief that this is actually happening, he approves, he approves -_

Logan made for where Patton had just been sitting, smiling more unabashedly than he’d had ever seen. Patton let Roman go and ran to meet him halfway.

Logan caught him by the arms, beaming. “Patton -”

“I do,” he exclaimed. He threw his arms around Logan’s neck. “I do, I do, I do, I do!”

“Patton, I haven’t even asked you anything,” he laughed in response, holding him back at arm’s length. Patton dragged his hands over his own golden-brown curls in an attempt to curb his own soaring excitement. He was all but bouncing.

Logan, to his credit, was barely containing his own anticipation. “Patton,” he said, as seriously as he could muster, “I don’t have a dollar to my name. I don’t own an acre of land. I don’t even command any troops on the battlefield. I’m not a wealthy or famous man.” He took his hands in his own. “But I do have my honor, my education, and my intellect. I love your family as if they are my own, and after so long without mine, I’m truly honored that they accept me so readily. And I would love nothing more, Patton Schuyler, than if you’d let me become a member of your family. Formally.”

A tear spilled down Patton’s cheek, and he covered his laughing half-sob as Logan knelt before him, still holding his hand in both of his, still gazing into his eyes. “Will you marry me?” he asked.

“ _Yes_ , you goof!” Patton pulled him back up to standing and clutched him tight against him, crying-laughing into his shoulder. “I already said ‘I do’, didn’t I?”

“You did,” said Logan, and their lips met in a trembling, overjoyous kiss that was almost more grin than anything else.

And finally, _finally_ , Patton had what he’d been dreaming about his whole life.

_That boy is mine._

* * *

The date was set. The ceremony took place in the gardens of the Schuyler country estate, with the reception set in the grand manor ballroom. Patton - always one to go for the effeminate for any formal occasion - wore a gown of pale robin’s egg blue for his walk down the aisle of garden seats. He’d decided to take Logan’s last name.

And they were married. Husband and husband. The groom was kissed.

And Logan and Patton Schuyler Hamilton walked hand in hand through the garden to the reception, where the wine was already flowing.

Roman had opted for ruby red, his dress a similar cut as his brother’s. Patton had wanted it that way. _I don’t want you to think I’m becoming a whole new person_ , he’d said. _I’ll still be your brother. Always._

Roman knew that. It’s why the facade of a genuine smile was so easy to maintain all throughout the day. He was happy for Patton. Truly and honestly. He’d never seen his brother so happy.

It was just whenever Roman looked at the other groom, seated by his new husband’s side, his smile just felt a little more hollow every time.

Someone called for the speech. As the best man, Roman smiled out at the crowd of wedding guests and lifted his wineglass to the newlyweds. “A toast to the groom,” he said, “and to the… other groom.” 

Murmurs of laughter among the guests. Patton beamed at Logan and rested his head on his shoulder, gazing at Roman with his wineglass held aloft.

Roman shook his head to clear himself of any hesitation. “From your new brother, who will always be by your side, come what may - a toast to your union.”

“To THE Union!” called one of Logan’s revolutionary friends. More chuckles from the crowd. “To the revolution!”

“May you always be satisfied,” Roman beamed. The guests lifted their glasses and toasted the grooms before taking their drinks. Patton and Logan, after drinking their own wine, snuck a quick kiss.

Roman knew that his brother would be happy as a Hamilton. He knew that. Patton’s dream had come true, that was clear as day. But nothing could seem to fill the space in Roman’s heart, the tiny space that knew that it was Roman’s doing alone that brought the two of them together. Roman’s choice to divert those first flirting advances from Logan onto his little brother.

_Nice going, Roman. He was right._

_You will never be satisfied._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small fun fact from the author: the idea for this entire fic actually sprang from a single random thought I had one day of, "hey, you know, Helpless is just Logicality told from Patton's perspective," from which point I immediately began wondering where other characters fit in the Hamilton universe and then whoops my hand slipped~ :)


	5. A Reason I'm Still Alive

“Alright, alright!”

Virgil put his foot up on his chair, wobbling only a little as he raised his tankard above his head, a sloppy grin plastered across his plastered face. Logan grinned up at his friend with Remy and Joan seated at either side of him. Patton was in the other room, gushing over the endless congratulations from his Schuyler relations in his family’s ballroom, leaving Logan and the rest of the groomspeople unsupervised. With an open bar.

“Now, I’ve seen some real wonders in my life,” professed Virgil. “But I’ll tell you what, friends - if the _robot_ can get married…”

Logan rolled his eyes as Remy slapped him on the back.

Virgil grinned. “Then there’s hope for our asses after all!”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Joan laughed.

“To freedom!”

The four of them hoisted their mugs into the air with a cheer before drinking deeply. Logan nearly spilled his ale down his cravat as Remy elbowed him with a shit-eating grin. “Something _you’ll_ never see again,” he said.

“Yeah, no matter what he tells you,” said Joan, angling their head towards the other room.

Logan just scoffed good-naturedly. He was too inebriated to put up too great of a fight with his best friends. “Let’s just order another round,” he said. Joan whooped and slammed his tankard on the table twice.

“Joan, you’re the reason none of Logan’s wealthy new family members want to associate with us,” said Virgil with a smirk.

“Like you’re any better!”

“Come now, a toast!” cheered Remy. “To the newly not-poor of us: Emile Schuyler’s new son-in-law, Logan Hamilton!”

“Indeed.”

Logan turned at the new voice. Janus Burr stood in the doorway, leaning on one shoulder with both arms crossed. A smirk shifted the vitiligo on that side of his face.

Logan cracked a grin. “Well, if it isn’t Janus Burr.”

“Sir!” crowed Remy, nearly toppling backwards off his seat.

“I didn’t think that you would make it,” said Logan, offering his hand in greeting.

Janus huffed a laugh. “Totally didn’t think about bailing last minute. I never thought New York’s elite would ever be your kind of company, Logan. But I see the whole… original gang is here as well,” he said, flicking his heterochromatic gaze at the other three soldiers. Virgil scrunched his nose at him in an exaggerated scowl. Janus’ smirk only grew. “Quite the culture clash, I imagine. This deep in the drinks already, are you?”

“You are the worst, Burr,” scoffed Remy, chugging the rest of his ale.

“I’m just here to congratulate your friend.”

“Ignore them,” said Logan. “I suppose I ought to be offering you my condolences as well, Lieutenant-Colonel.”

“Oh, you needn’t. It’s not that big of a promotion, anyway,” said Janus, examining his fingernails under his gloves.

Logan just flicked his eyebrows. “It’s more of a promotion then I’m seeing anytime soon,” he said. “I’d rather have your command instead of my desk job holed up in headquarters every day.”

“Oh, honey, _you?_ General Thomas Washington’s _right hand man_ , simping after _my_ piddly little rank?” Janus burst into a peal of laughter. “That’s a laugh and a half.”

“I’m serious.”

“Come now, Logan, this sort of childish indignation is so unbecoming. From what I hear, you’ve made yourself indispensable at that… what did you boil it down to? _Desk job?_ ”

“Well,” said Virgil, suddenly appearing at Logan’s elbow and smirking at the lieutenant-colonel, “ _I’ve_ heard that _you’ve_ got a special someone on the side, Janus.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” said Janus.

“Aw,” crooned Virgil, looping an arm around Logan’s shoulders, “what are you trying to hide, Jan? Nothing illicit, I hope? Where is this girl?”

“Come on, V, no picking fights at my wedding reception.”

“Says you!”

Janus sniffed. “I’m afraid Theodosia could not make it to this party,” he clipped. “Sorry to disappoint. A rebel soldier’s wedding to a rebel general’s son is simply no place for the _wife of a British officer_.”

Logan and Virgil ogled. Janus didn’t glance up from his gloves. “Shit,” muttered Virgil.

“Mm, yes, unfortunate, isn’t it. Maybe you ought to show a little more tact when delving into topics that don’t concern you, _Virgil_.”

“I’m… sorry,” said Logan.

“Don’t waste your flattery on me. I’m keeping her bed plenty warm while her husband is away, it’s of no concern to me that she cannot accompany me to every other public event.”

“But… don’t you want to?” he asked. “If you like her that much, go get her. What are you waiting for?”

Janus seemed to turn over those words in his mind, sighing at length. “Everyone who’s ever loved me has been taken from me every time, Logan,” he said. “You may choose to exhibit no restraint and grab at every winning chance that comes your way, but you and I are different in that way. I’m simply willing to… wait for my opportunities to come to me.”

Logan and Virgil just looked at him, unsure of how to respond to that.

“Well,” said Janus, straightening the cuffs of his jacket over his gloves, “This has been _so_ fun, but I ought to leave.”

“You just got here,” said Logan. “Did you even greet Patton?”

“I trust you’ll pass on my compliments. So lovely to see you again, Logan. Virgil.”

Virgil snorted.

Janus turned on his heel and wiggled his fingers over his shoulder. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war, Mr. Hamilton. Smile more.”

He disappeared into the glittering crowds. Virgil huffed a breath that smelled strongly of alcohol. “Asshole. Probably just came to flex his new title and secret love affair just to rain on your big day.”

“Oh, probably,” murmured Logan.

Virgil’s snort was amplified by the acoustics of his tankard as he brought it to his mouth and took another long swig without meeting his eyes. His arm was still thrown over Logan’s shoulder. Logan glanced at him.

Virgil felt his gaze. “What?” he muttered.

“You’ve drunk more than Remy and Joan combined tonight,” Logan asked gently. “And you’ve been testier than usual. Are you… okay?”

He glanced away, taking another quiet sip. “Fine,” he murmured.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Virgil unslung his arm, shrugging. “Listen. You and I haven’t been a thing for a long time, now. I’m happy for you.”

Logan shoved his hands into the pockets of his long jacket. Of course, he’d known Virgil would probably still feel remnants of jealousy regarding his marriage to Patton. He and Virgil _had_ been… involved, those first few years of the war, but even before Logan had even met his new husband, those mutual feelings had been fading. Their liaisons were things of the past.

“Cut it out.” Virgil elbowed him and cracked a small smile. “Stop looking at me like that, I’m fine. Really. You and Patton are made for each other. I’ve always seen that. This is a drink in your honor,” he said, lifting the mug. 

Logan couldn’t help but smile back. “You know me, I don’t care for sentiment,” he said, “But… know that no matter what, there will always be a special place in my heart for you, Virgil.”

Virgil jerked his chin over Logan’s shoulder with a smirk. “Not too big a place, I hope.”

A flash of sapphire blue at the corner of his vision, and suddenly there was Patton, beaming like a gemstone lit from within. Logan felt his entire heart swell with affection, so sharply that he had to place a hand to his chest.

One last elbow from Virgil. “Go get ‘em,” he smirked.

“Gosh!” Patton lifted his skirts to swerve around a table before beaming at Logan. “I almost forgot how big my family really is. We’ve got Schuylers and van Rensselaers here all the way from _Virginia_ \- I didn’t even know we _had_ family that far south!” he giggled. “It’s been a mess trying to snag a moment away from them all.”

“By the looks of it, you’ve been doing a good enough job,” said Logan, eyeing the pink flushing his husband’s cheeks and the loose, easy grin. He had a fairly good idea that he could track Patton’s rounds through his family’s ballroom by following a trail of drained wine glasses left on the tables.

“Pssh!” Patton waved a hand. “A couple sips here and there. Just saving room for the tall drink of water that is my brand-new husband.”

Logan’s face grew warm, and Patton wove his arms around his waist to press a kiss to his mouth. He tasted like sugar and wine. His tongue did, too, when he brushed it across the seam of his lips. Logan’s heart did a hot, sudden somersault.

Wolf whistles from the table of soldiers finally broke them apart. Remy, Joan, and Virgil were grinning like bobcats. “Tall drink of water, eh, Logan?” crowed Remy.

“I can’t believe I’m going to spend the rest of my life listening to your puns,” said Logan, furiously trying to cool down the blush on his face.

“Aw, you love my puns, shut up,” giggled Patton, kissing his cheek soundly.

Joan groaned. “ _I_ can’t believe I’m going to spend the rest of _my_ life surrounded by you two and your disgustingly cute PDA.”

“Actually, that’s part of the reason I dropped in on you fine soldiers,” said Patton, hooking his arm in Logan’s. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to steal this one away. It’s getting late and I’ve already thanked the majority of my guests profusely… not to mention I think we’ve both had plenty to drink tonight.”

“Falsehood,” said Logan. “You’re clearly more intoxicated than I am.”

“I dunno, Lo, your face looks pretty red to me,” grinned Virgil.

“So, anyway…” Patton winked at them. “The two of us oughta call it a night. Besides, we’ve got more… pressing business to attend to, anyway.”

Logan frowned at him. “What business? I thought you said to leave talk of politics out of the discussion tonight.”

Patton bit his lip, trying to suppress a smirk, but only flicked his eyebrows as a response. The rest of the group were exchanging knowing looks. Virgil’s eyebrows were practically in his hairline as he took a deep swig of his ale.

_Business…?_

Oh.

_Oh._

“Look at his _face!_ ” cackled Remy.

“Took him long enough.”

Patton was grinning fully, but he still had his lower lip caught between his teeth. Logan was fairly certain he was about to spontaneously combust at the sight. His heartbeat thumped louder and louder as he scrambled to regain his composure, but _fuck_ , with Patton looking at him like _that_ …

“Perhaps I am… not, uh… thinking. Quite as uh… coherently as previously assumed, after all.” He cleared his throat.

“Just get a fucking room and do something about Patton’s big ol’ bedroom eyes,” teased Virgil. 

“It was so nice to see all of you tonight!” beamed Patton as he nudged Logan in the way of the door. “Thank you for coming! We’ll see you all later!”

“Hopefully much later!” roared Remy.

Logan caught Virgil’s gaze across the room, but the soldier just raised his mug with another small smile. Encouraging.

_You and Patton were made for each other._

“Lo?”

Patton drew his attention. The freckles dusting his rosy cheeks, the blue of his eyes, the soft golden-brown curls of his hair. The curve of his neck. The bare, freckled collar bones exposed by the neckline of his gown. 

He tipped his head towards the sweeping stairwell that led up to the private wings of his family’s manor. To the room that had been set aside for their wedding night. “You wanna get out of here?” he murmured.

Logan’s heart was still pounding. It still seemed so surreal. That Patton was really his, his _husband_ , they were married, and he had him all to himself… every curl of hair, every inch of his skin…

“Yes,” he whispered.

Patton smiled. He was close enough that he could feel the warmth of his breath. “Then let’s get out of here, husband.”

Logan let him lead him up the stairwell by the hand, slipping off down a quiet hallway. Patton pulled him in by his cravat for an open-mouthed kiss before the door was even open. They practically stumbled across the threshold, the door shutting behind Logan’s back as he pressed him up against the wood, sugar and wine mixing on their tongues as they kissed, hot and desperate and so fucking _in love_. Logan’s fingers were dug deep into Patton’s hair, guiding the kiss, and Patton’s hands were underneath his jacket where they splayed across his arching back.

Patton let out a moan against Logan’s mouth as Logan trailed the tips of his fingers along the gown’s buttons. Unhooking them one by one down his spine. His breathing quickened. “Mmh, Logan, _oh_ -”

“You alright?” he murmured against Patton’s neck.

“Yeah.” His breathing came at a gasp, and he arched under Logan’s palms. He smiled, eyelashes downcast and cheeks flushed with color. “Don’t… don’t stop.”

He hooked him by the cravat again, slanting their mouths together harder. Logan’s jacket slid off his shoulders. The buttons came undone, and he slid his hand between the fabric and the skin of Patton’s bare back, feeling the muscles shift under his palm as Patton made short work of his waistcoat. It joined the jacket on the floor. Patton’s shoes. Logan’s shirt. The silk dress. The shift. 

Patton’s back hit the mattress and his fingers dug into Logan’s hair, pulling him tight against him, on _top_ of him, sweat and hot breath and mouths everywhere. Exploring every new inch of skin as they bared it to the other. Patton threw his head back against the pillow, melodies of gasps and moans spilling from his lips but always pulling Logan closer, closer, _closer_. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, moving and gasping in tandem.

_Made for each other._

With his mouth pressed to the freckles up Patton’s neck, Logan had never agreed with something so completely in his whole life.


	6. That's An Order From Your Commander

Every honeymoon, no matter how enjoyable and perfect, has to come to an end. In the middle of a war, that fact is all the clearer.

Logan spent every waking and sleeping second in the company of his beautiful new husband, making the most of every moment right up until the inevitable end of his military leave. It was just enough time to settle on a cozy row home in downtown New York for just the two of them. And, of course, to break it in. Make it feel lived in.

Most of those efforts took place in the new master bedroom they suddenly had all to themselves.

But in the end, Logan still had a critical job to return to on the warfront, so he bade Patton a stoic farewell on their front stoop. After embracing him tight as he could, Patton wiped away the glimmering tears in his blue eyes and asked his only condition of Logan before the officers took him away.

“Stay alive,” he murmured in his ear.

* * *

That simple command turned out to be a lot harder to heed than Logan thought.

The war against the British had gone from bad to worse, and continued to do so after returning to Thomas’s desk. Month after month, the Continental Army racked up loss after loss, culminating in their latest stalemate at Monmouth - and even then, almost a thousand soldiers had died in the hundred-degree heat. Every local merchant denied them assistance, since most of them still only took British money and the Continental dollar of the army was all but useless.

Logan had never seen the General so despondent.

“The cavalry’s not coming,” said Thomas one day, taking off his tricorn hat to wipe the humid sweat from his brow. 

Logan rose from behind the desk. It unnerved him to see the man’s shoulders slump so gravely. “Sir-”

“Logan, listen.” Thomas met his gaze. There was still determination, but it was haggard. “There’s only one way for us to win this - we’ve got to provoke public outrage. We need more of the colonists on our side.”

“How do we do that?” he asked.

“Drag out their forces. Wear them down. Hit them by night, every night, until they’re pouring more money into their armies than they’re earning back in gained land.”

“Make it impossible to justify the cost of the fight,” Logan said, the realization dawning on him.

Thomas nodded. “Outrun and outlast. That’s our only strategy. We’ve got to strike them quick and then get out before they can rally their full strength against us. We’re not going to survive another outright battle like Monmouth without public reinforcement.”

He nodded. Thomas set his hat back on his head, but before he could step back outside, Logan caught his arm. “General,” he said, trying to crack a reassuring smile, “If you need… I’d be more than willing to lead one of those midnight strikes.”

“No, I need you here,” he said with a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “While we’re pressuring the British, I need you to keep up the pressure on Congress to send us more aid.”

“But, sir, it wouldn’t have to be a permanent promotion, all I’m asking is for you to entrust me with one command, just one, let me prove myself-”

“You already have,” said Thomas. “This is how you can best serve this army.”

That wasn’t the first time the General had dismissed him - not by a long shot - but it didn’t make it hurt any less when he was left alone in the secretary’s office again. Logan ground his jaw, scowling at the half-finished letters strewn across the desk. He’d never fought back against Thomas’s decision, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

_Just once… if he’d just listen to me one time…_

“It isn’t even like I’m getting anything done as his secretary anyway,” Logan lamented to Virgil several days later over a pint of ale in the army headquarters. He sloshed his drink angrily and took a swig. “You read Congress’ letters. They’re useless malinformed imbeciles, the lot of them.”

“They just don’t see how this strike strategy of his is going to gain us any land,” said Virgil. 

“Exactly. Malinformed imbeciles. We’re trying to save this fucking army, and all they have to say is _attack the British already_. We fucking _are_. There’s more than one way to win a war,” he scoffed.

Virgil smirked. “The next time you write, you should tell them about how many horses we were forced to feed the men with this past winter. That’d get them to ease off your ass.”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “Things really couldn’t get much worse right now.”

Beside him, his friend went uncomfortably silent. Virgil was usually silent, of course, but Logan could practically feel that there was something he was biting back. He eyed him over the rim of his mug. “What,” he said.

“This… probably isn’t the best time to tell you this,” he said.

“Tell me what?”

He sighed. “Lee’s back on his bullshit.”

“He’s fucking _not_. Are you serious?”

“Wish I wasn’t,” Virgil sighed. “I saw him in town. He was all, ‘Washington can’t be left to his own devices on the battlefield, he’s too indecisive, the best thing he could do for the revolution is go back to planting tobacco in Mount Vernon.’ You know, the usual Lee spiel.”

“Shit,” Logan growled into his mug.

Thomas had been so adamant about keeping Logan behind his desk that he’d promoted Charles Lee to the rank of general, making him second in command only to Thomas himself. It was Lee’s fault that the battle of Monmouth had been such a disaster. After the incompetent general shat the bed, Thomas immediately dismissed him, and he’d been following the army, stirring up anti-Washington sentiments in town ever since.

“Thomas never should have promoted that guy,” snapped Logan. “Not after he all but skipped through the ranks cheering _‘whee’_ after he got the news.”

“He’s a buffoon,” said Virgil.

“He’s a threat, is what he is. Right now, our greatest enemy is our own citizens for not supplying us, and he’s out there making that even harder.”

_Not to mention, he’s slandering the only man tethering me to this war, and if Thomas drowns in the onslaught of negative public opinion, so do I…_

Virgil sighed, leaning back in his chair. After a long moment of miserable silence, he spoke again. “You know, Lee’s putting out some fighting words. Someone oughta hold him to them.”

Logan blinked, meeting his friend’s steely gaze. “You mean… like a duel?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I’d love to,” he said, “but I just can’t go against direct orders. Thomas explicitly told me not to do anything about his whining last time.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

The two soldiers locked eyes for a very long time. Virgil’s countenance was steady, his expression firm, but Logan was sure there he spotted a flicker of anxiety at the very thought.

_A duel._

_That would knock Lee down a few pegs for sure. But Virgil could die just as easily…_

Logan swallowed. “V,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to do that. You’re not involved.”

“I am, though,” he replied. “Thomas is my general, but he’s my friend too, same as you. Besides, you said yourself that Lee’s whining is turning the public against the Continental Army. Someone needs to take him down eventually.”

“It doesn’t have to be you.”

“Aw, are you worried for my safety?” Virgil smirked. He bumped him with his elbow. “Careful, Logan, or people’ll start to think the robot has feelings.”

“Virgil.”

He sighed. “Look. I’m doing this for you, okay? You’re… you know. You’re the closest friend I’ve got.” He shrugged his shoulders with a quirk of his mouth. “Since Thomas banned you from participating, I’ll go in your stead. You can be my second.”

_I still love you._

Logan winced at the thought of Patton back home, but the more he searched Virgil’s face, the more he understood that that was true. _I don’t love you the way I love Patton, but there’s still a place in my heart for you. You’ve made a home there and I don’t think you’re ever going to leave._

_I love you, and I don’t want to see you hurt._

But he understood ambition. The drive to right a wrong done unto a close friend. Logan had been denied that, but he wouldn’t stand in the way of Virgil taking his place if it meant that much to him.

So all he said in response was, “Laurens, you better not throw away your shot.”

* * *

Lee and Virgil faced each other down on the dueling ground. Logan stepped forward in the stretch of grass between them to face down his own opponent - Lee’s second. It was the eighth step in the escalation of any duel to have the seconds negotiate for their duelist one last time.

It was just an added point of interest for Logan, seeing as Lee’s second happened to be none other than Janus Burr.

“Logan,” he said, cool as ever.

“Janus,” Logan replied.

Janus glanced over his shoulder at Lee, sighing and crossing his arms. “Look,” he droned, “can the two of us agree that duels are dumb and immature pageantry?”

Logan crossed his own arms. “Normally, I’d agree wholeheartedly to that statement, but your man over there needs to answer for his words.”

“With his life?”

“I’m sorry, _how_ many men died in Monmouth because of Lee’s inexperience, again?”

“Guess we’re doing this after all, so much for civil negotiations.” Janus turned and walked away, waving his hand. “Go ahead, Lee, aim for Virgil’s ballsack.”

“That was fast,” murmured Virgil once Logan stalked back over in a huff.

“It’s Janus. What do you expect?” Logan placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You ready?”

Virgil took a deep breath, steadying himself. When he opened his eyes, they had hardened into their fearsome battle facade. He nodded. Logan stepped aside to let Virgil cross the dueling field.

He and Lee squared up face to face, guns gripped at their sides. A sizeable crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. Janus called out for the duelists to take their paces, and the two men turned their backs on one another.

And paced.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._

They turned and aimed.

_Ten._

“Fire!”

 _BANG_.

Lee crumpled, but Virgil stood tall, gun outstretched and eyes hard and shadowed. Janus immediately dropped to Lee’s side, where he lay moaning.

“Does he yield?” demanded Virgil.

Janus shot him a sarcastic glare. “Congratulations, Laurens, you shot him in the side. _Yes, he yields_.”

“Clear the field!” called someone in the gathered audience. The scene erupted into post-duel chaos. “Bring the doctor! Lee’s down!”

“Virgil, are you hurt?” Logan rushed to the victor’s side.

Virgil shook his head, running his hands over his middle as if searching for a nonexistent wound. “No,” he said, voice shaking, “No, I’m okay.”

His hand was trembling. Logan clasped it in his own, offering him a brief smile. “You’re okay. You’re not injured. You won the duel,” he said. Virgil just nodded and closed his eyes as he took a steadying breath. Another.

A new voice suddenly rang out above the pandemonium surrounding Lee. “Here comes the General!”

“Fuck,” Virgil hissed.

“Oh, _this_ should be fun,” drawled Janus.

Sure enough, General Thomas Washington shouldered through the crush of onlookers, sweeping the scene. His face was awash in shock and outrage as he locked gazes with Logan and Virgil. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“Bitches get stitches, sir,” muttered Virgil.

“I will deal with you two later.” He rounded his attention on the wounded, mewling general. “Mr. Burr.”

“Yessir,” said Janus.

“Find that medic. Hurry up.”

“Yessir.”

“Lee?”

The general cracked an eye open. His palm was slick with red, but he forced himself to look up at General Thomas looming over him.

Thomas sighed curtly. “You will never agree with me, general, but I assure you that those men -” he pointed at Virgil and Logan - “and their actions do not speak for me. Thank you for your service and I wish you a _speedy_ recovery.”

“Let’s get outta here,” Virgil muttered. Logan nodded and went to slip off into the crowd.

“ _Logan Hamilton_.”

Logan froze. He turned to see General Thomas pinning him with a glare. “Meet me inside the headquarters,” he said. “ _Now_.”

He stormed off, back through the crowd. Logan cast one last glance back at Virgil before he followed after him. The steps to the front door of the farmhouse headquarters creaked underfoot, and then the drafty door slammed shut behind him. Sealing him in with the General.

General Thomas sighed, crossing his arms. “Son -”

“Don’t call me son,” Logan muttered, feeling indignant rage flare inside him.

The general ignored him. “This war is hard enough without infighting, Logan.”

“Infighting?” he retorted. “You fired Lee. He threw a tantrum, called you out, and we called his bluff.”

“And solved _what_ , exactly? Nothing’s changed. All this little stunt of yours is going to do is aggravate our allies to the south. Lee isn’t going to suddenly change his mind about me just because Virgil Laurens shot him in the side.”

Logan scoffed. “You’re absolutely right, sir. Virgil should have gone for the mouth, that would have shut him up.”

“Son -”

“I’m not your son.”

“Watch your _tone_ , Logan, you’re toeing a dangerous line. In case you haven’t noticed, I am the general of the Continental Army, I don’t need my soldiers putting their lives at risk to defend me. I can navigate a couple bad reviews from a washed-up officer.”

“It’s not just one washed-up officer slandering your name, sir,” Logan shot back. “Charles Lee, Thomas Conway - there are too many of them out there taking your name and dragging it through the mud.”

General Thomas shook his head. “My name’s been through plenty. I can take it.”

“Well, I can't,” said Logan, throwing a hand in the direction of the door. “I don’t have your name or your titles or your land. What I do have is a direct association with you. If your name gets slandered, so does mine, and I can’t do anything to redeem myself sitting behind your desk all day.”

The general’s expression hardened, but Logan pressed on. “Please, sir, give me an opportunity to redeem myself by my own merit. Give me command -”

“No.”

“A single battalion of soldiers to lead, just one. I could rise above my station and make a name for myself after the war the way you did!”

“Or you could _die_ ,” General Thomas retorted. 

“I am more than willing to die, if that’s what it takes!”

“We need you _alive_ , Logan. Your _husband_ needs you alive, son I -”

“ _CALL ME SON ONE MORE TIME_.”

Rage flew through him as he shoved his face right up to the General’s, but the piercing glare he threw back stopped him dead in his tracks. Logan hadn’t realized how hard his heart had been thudding until it was the only sound in the room. The General held his gaze. Furious.

Logan suddenly felt very, very small.

 _Oh, I fucked up now_ … 

General Thomas didn’t raise his voice. Instead, in a slow, controlled cadence, he muttered, “Go home, Logan.”

His heart sank. Lips parted in disbelief. _He's… dismissing me?_

“That’s an order from your commander.”

“Sir -”

“Go. Home.”

There would be no arguing with the General. His expression was cold and unyielding as if it were carved from stone. So, without another word, Logan felt for the doorknob behind him and stepped out of the farmhouse in a daze.

_He dismissed me._

_All my hopes… my dreams, my ambition…_

_He dismissed me, and now they’re all gone._

* * *

It was a silent ride all the way back to New York. Logan’s mind was a blank slate of disbelief and despair the entire way home.

A letter had been dispatched ahead of him. Patton was standing on the doorstep of their city house in a dove gray coat when his horse trudged up the road. He was beaming so beautifully with such genuine _relief_ , but even the sight of his husband’s countless freckles and sparkling blue eyes did nothing to raise Logan from his dissociative state.

“You’re home,” Patton breathed, throwing his arms around his shoulders and hugging him tight, like he couldn’t get close enough to him. He smelled of bread flour and stove smoke, it clung to his clothes and soft golden-brown hair. “God, I can’t believe you’re finally home.”

“He dismissed me,” said Logan.

Patton pulled back only enough to cup his jaw in his hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “Washington?”

“He sent me away.”

“You did your part, honey.” His husband kissed him, long and slow, and Logan closed his eyes to try to let the warm sensation ease his cold body. It hardly did anything. 

“You made your contribution to the war effort, but now that you’re home, we can finally focus on the rest of our lives.” Patton was still speaking. His hands slid down his shoulders, his arms, to take both his hands and guide him up the front steps of their house and into the hallway. “You had a good run, Lo. You did a good job.”

“And what do I have to show for it?”

His husband blinked, stopping in the middle of the narrow, wood-paneled hallway. Logan didn’t move. He only held his gaze for the first time since his arrival.

Patton blinked back at him. “I… what?”

Logan ran his hands through his hair, steeling himself with a breath. “When I was a child in the Caribbean, I wished for a war, Patton. _Begged_ for one, because I knew that as a poor boy with nothing, a war was the only way I would ever be able to make a name for myself. The only way for me to get ahead would be if I died on the battlefield in glory, or made it through as a heroic commander that led my country to victory.”

Patton stared at him, mute, but Logan kept going. “General Thomas made me his secretary, called me his right hand man, but he never gave me _command_ . He said he needed me alive. That my role was invaluable.” He scoffed. “How many _war secretaries_ can you name, Patton?”

“But, Lo… your role _was_ invaluable -”

“It tied me to Thomas,” he insisted. “I was just his _shadow_. That’s no legacy. That’s not making a name for myself. I thought maybe if I pushed him enough, he’d see that, but look where that got me!”

“It got you home _safe_ ,” Patton insisted, his mouth turning down in indignation.

“It left me with nothing!” Logan whirled around, turning his back on him in disgust. _Disgust in myself. Disgust that I could throw away this one shot I had…_ “I can’t provide for you like this,” he said. “This revolution was my chance to make it, to rise, and I ruined it.”

“Logan, you will have other chances to make a difference in people’s lives! You could go into law, join politics like my father did after his time -”

“No, Patton, you don’t understand,” he snapped. “Your family has always been wealthy. Everyone already _knew_ the Schuylers. No one knows the Hamilton name outside these walls!”

“But who else besides the two of us needs to praise your name? You could have a whole family who loves you right here -”

“But I had the chance for so much more -”

“I want a baby, Logan!” 

His words immediately died in his throat. Logan stared wide-eyed at his husband in the hall. Patton stood firm, fists clenched at his sides. Chin up. Unwavering.

Every thought had flown clear from Logan’s mind.

_He… wants a…?_

Patton took a deep breath. “I want to adopt a baby of our own,” he said, quietly but firmly. “I want to raise a child with you, Logan. Lots of children, if we can. I want to be a father.”

“I…” Logan had no idea how to respond to that. “How… long have you been… feeling this way?”

“Honestly?” He breathed a laugh. “Since we got married.”

“Patton -”

“Obviously I didn’t want to tell you that right off the bat, I wanted to make the most of our honeymoon period, too, but… well, it’s out, now,” he said. “I want to start a family, and I need you to be a part of it, Lo.”

“You… you never let on that you felt this way,” he replied. “Patton, you should have told me.”

“Come on. We both know even that wouldn’t have torn you away from the war.” He shook his head. “I did write to the general.”

“When?”

“About a month ago. I begged him to send you home.”

 _Your husband needs you alive. Go home._ “Patton,” he said.

“I’m not sorry.” He gently took Logan’s hands in his own, gazing up at him with a small smile. “Listen… I knew you were going to fight until the war was over.”

“It still isn’t over.”

“But,” he squeezed his hands, “you also deserve a chance to have a family of your own. And you’re right, Logan, I _don’t_ understand what your life has been like up until now, and probably never will - but I do understand the importance of family. You’ve been without a proper one for so long. Please, let’s start one. The two of us.”

Logan’s heart melted at the hope in his husband’s eyes, but still his insides turned with guilt. “Would you really relish being a poor man’s husband?” he murmured. “If this war really was the only shot I’ll ever get at making a name for myself? For this family?”

“Lo, I relish being _your_ husband.” Patton grinned. “And mustard it, and catsup it -”

“Pat, I’m serious,” he laughed.

“So am I!” said Patton. “We don’t need a legacy to be happy, Lo. We don’t even need money. Just let _me_ be a part of your story, please, if you’re so intent on writing one for yourself - _that_ would be enough.”

Logan looked down at their joined hands. “Would it?”

“Yes, it would. Look around,” he said, beaming at the walls of their cozy city home. The parlor doors. The wooden stairwell. “Look at where we are, and think of where we started… where _you_ started. The very fact that you’re alive is a miracle in itself. All I’m asking is that you stay alive long enough to enjoy this life. And if that means you have to cut short your time at war… so be it.”

_How can that be enough for you?_

Patton seemed to sense his reluctance, and he rubbed his freckled thumbs across the backs of Logan’s hands, smiling. “I don’t pretend to know the challenges you’re facing, but I’m not afraid of any of them,” he said. “I know who I married. We’ll get through them all and come out okay on the other side.”

So full of hope. Logan was far too jaded to ever have that kind of honest optimism in his eyes, but Patton was like a ray of sunlight at his back. Guiding him. Warming him.

And _that_ finally chipped away at the ice that had settled over his heart.

Logan pulled him in for a tight hug, holding the back of his husband’s head close, clutching his fingers into his soft curls. “I love you,” he said.

Patton’s laugh vibrated through both of their chests. “And I love you,” he replied. “Please stay. Stay with me.”

They stood like that, embracing in the hall of their home, for a long, long time. Eyes closed. Letting that very moment be the only thing that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments if you feel like it! :)


	7. The World Turned Upside Down

The news of a turning tide marched slowly over the continent, growing louder and louder as it approached like distant rolls of thunder. To Thomas Washington, alone at the head of the Continental Army, it felt like the impending storm that had come to finally break a stifling summer’s heat wave.

For France had pledged military aid at last.

French troops were on their way across the Atlantic. Guns. Ships. Ammunition. The turning of the tide was upon them.

And there was one name at the forefront of it all, even preceding the navy’s arrival. The name of the man who had risked it all in gaining the French as allies, who had engaged, escaped, and confounded the British every time they tried to stop his efforts, who had solidified himself in the public eye as the revolutionary nation’s hero. 

America’s favorite fighting Frenchman, the Marquis de Lafayette.

So when Remy kicked down Thomas’ headquarters door shooting off at the mouth in rapid-fire indecipherable French, Thomas had seen him coming from a mile away.

“ _Mon dieu, General!_ ” he exclaimed, ripping off his tinted glasses in his heavily accented fervor. “I leave you alone for how long? And I come back to this… this _bullshit?_ ”

“Which bullshit, Remy? There’s a lot of it about lately,” said Thomas.

“ _Which bullshit_. This ridiculousness with Logan! What do you think I’m talking about? What the hell did you do with your incomparable right hand man?”

“I… dismissed him.”

Remy ogled at him, as though he hadn’t heard correctly. “Excuse _-moi?!”_

“He was being insubordinate,” Thomas tried to explain, but Remy just let loose a string of French curses, flinging his arms.

“Oh, little Logan Hamilton didn’t like sitting behind your desk, drowning in your useless letters to your Continental Congress, so he engages in a little good-natured teenage rebellion in his early twenties. Insubordinate! Pah! He hated being your secretary, and you know it!”

“Remy, the man’s a genius with words, no one else could have done a better job. I couldn’t let him prance off into battle. What if he got himself killed?”

Remy scoffed. “So you fired him?”

“Well…”

“ _Truly_ an act of genius on your part. Now you don’t have Logan in either position, and what has that gotten you?”

_An ever-growing pile of Congress correspondences being continually shoved to the corner of my desk, and a Continental Army no closer to victory._

“Listen.” Remy seemed to marginally compose himself. “The balance is shifting, Thomas. France is _en route_ as we speak with enough guns and ships to end this war in Yorktown if we consolidate forces with Rochambeau. We can cut the British off at sea.”

For the first time in memory, Thomas’s heart surged with real hope, hearing those words. Picturing the battlefield map. The new moving pieces. “How far out are they?” he asked.

“At least a week. Almost certainly longer, that British blockade will be no easy feat to surpass.”

“And you think we can succeed with this French aid?”

“Not the French aid alone, _ami_.” Remy braced his hands on Thomas’s desk, narrowing his eyes. “You will need one other asset in your arsenal.”

Thomas sighed. “I know,” he said. “I need Logan back, don’t I?”

“ _Yes you need Logan back!_ ” he exclaimed. “You don’t give him enough credit, Thomas. No one has more resilience in the face of adversity, or even comes close to matching _my_ tactical genius.”

It was true. Thomas knew that. He’d always known that Logan had the makings of a successful commander, but the fear of losing his secretary - and his close friend - had always overrode that rationale. 

_But I’m already fighting blind without his help. If he wants to lead troops, then I have nothing more to lose and we both have everything to gain._

Remy crossed his arms and set his tinted glasses back on his nose with a smirk. “You want to fight for this country’s existence, don’t you?”

Thomas nodded and said, “I need my right hand man back.”

“That’s more like it!” the marquis crowed, flaunting his way out the door. “Put that fountain to the letter, _ami_ , and bring our Logan home!”

* * *

The lock turned in the door, and Patton launched up from the edge of his seat, flinging himself at his husband before he even had a chance to cross the threshold.

“Wh-” Logan’s shout of surprise was immediately cut off as Patton grabbed his face and kissed him. Lips slanted, beaming uncontrollably against his mouth, kissing him over and over. Completely inappropriate behavior for a married couple in full view of the neighbors, but Patton’s heart was soaring too high to care.

Logan finally separated himself for air. “Salutations,” he breathed. 

“Hi.” Patton kissed him again, unashamedly syrupy-slow. With tongue.

“Patton-” Logan cast a blushing glance at their residential street. “This is… completely inappropriate…”

“Once you hear the news we just got, you’re not gonna think so.”

He brightened, and Patton never thought he looked cuter. “You also have news?” asked Logan.

Patton blinked. “You… mean you have some, too?”

“I just came from the mail office,” he said. He held up a letter nestled in a thin envelope, the top seam already ripped through.

“Oh, my gosh, Lo!” Patton dragged him inside, slamming the door and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He didn’t know what to even do with his hands, he was so excited. He settled for clutching hold of Logan’s and crinkling the letter in their grip. “What’s your news? Please, please tell me!”

“You first,” grinned Logan. God, Patton almost _never_ saw him smile that big. _He can’t contain his excitement, either._ “You attacked me the moment I opened the door, why don’t you get yours off your chest?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Patton took a deep breath to calm himself down as much as he could, then he grabbed his own letter off the side table and clutched it up in front of his chest, absolutely _beaming_. “The adoption home approved our application,” he exclaimed. “We can sign the papers as soon as we want!”

“What!” Logan grabbed Patton by the waist and hoisted him up, laughing. “Patton, that’s incredible news!”

“I know!” Patton took hold of his face and kissed him again. He gazed into his eyes as if he could convey every drop of joy inside him. “We’re having a baby!” he whispered. “We’re going to be fathers, Lo!”

“I can’t believe it,” breathed Logan, hugging him tightly. Patton clutched the fabric of his jacket shoulders and tucked his face into the crook of his neck. 

_He and I, fathers… finally, we’re going to be parents…_

Logan set him back down with a sheepish look, lifting his own letter, now thoroughly wrinkled. Patton’s hands didn’t leave his arms. “I… admit, my news isn’t quite as monumental for our family as a whole as yours, but… well, I didn’t think anything could make me happier than the contents of my letter when I read them outside the mail office today. You clearly proved me wrong just now.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! This isn’t a competition,” Patton laughed as he rubbed his sleeves. “Any exciting news for you is exciting news for me, just as long as you _get on with it!_ I can’t stand this anticipation.”

Logan laughed softly, easing out the letter. “Well,” he said, “this letter… it’s from Thomas.”

“Really? Oh, that must have been so nice to finally hear from him after your disagreement. You’re still friends, then?”

“Better,” said Logan. “Even better. Pat… he’s promoting me to Lieutenant Colonel. He’s welcoming me back into the ranks as a _commander!_ ”

And the joy in Patton’s heart slowly faded away. 

Slowly drained out of his shell of a smile the longer he stared at his husband. At Logan, beaming like he hardly ever beamed before. Beaming in a pure, genuine way that Patton hadn’t seen him beam since their wedding. 

In a way that nothing Patton had ever done since had been able to replicate.

_He’s been called back to war, and he’s beaming._

Logan didn’t seem to notice that Patton was no longer bouncing with excitement. His own was too overpowering. “Even after our argument, he still wants me back. He finally wants me in the field,” he gushed. “I can finally make a name for myself in this war.”

Patton pulled the corners of his lips upwards. “That’s… that’s great, Lo,” he said.

“It’s everything I ever wanted in this revolution.”

_Everything you ever wanted?_

He finally realized Patton’s smile was falling fast. His own joy dimmed, but he fought to maintain it. “This is a good thing,” he assured him. “Really. This promotion means I’m going to be able to provide for you.”

“I’m sure it does,” said Patton. “I’m… I’m happy for you.”

_I told you that fatherhood is finally in our grasp, and all you want to do is throw yourself back into the gunshots and fire and death -_

“Will… will you be fighting?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Logan said. “But… it’ll be more than that, I’ll be leading my troops to victory. You’ll hear about me leading the winning charge in the papers. The whole country will.”

_And if you die, the whole country will hear about that, too, and you will have never met your child and I…_

_I will have lost you…_

A hand touched Patton’s face. “It’s going to be okay,” said Logan. “I’ll come back to you when it’s done. I swear it.”

_You don’t know that, you don’t know that, that’s what every soldier says to their spouse before taking a bullet to the gut…_

Patton closed his eyes, steeling against those horrible, spiraling visions. When he opened them again, his voice was small. “When will you leave?”

Logan rubbed his thumbs over Patton’s freckled hands. He didn’t remember when he’d taken them in his own. “He wants me back as soon as possible. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

_Tomorrow._

_No time to complete the adoption process. No time to bring a child home. No time to settle back and enjoy life as a pair of fathers._

But then again, that had always been the extent of Patton’s ambitions in life. Logan’s had never stopped at raising a family - he was always thinking far ahead, always reaching for the next best thing, always climbing. Patton knew that. Patton had fallen in love with that ambition.

_This is the difference in philosophy that you’re always going to run into as the husband of Logan Hamilton. You will be competing against that ambition for a place in his heart for the rest of your life._

_Roman always said he would do whatever it takes to survive. This will be no different._

The rest of the afternoon and evening slipped by. Patton couldn’t stop looking at the clock hands every other moment, feeling defeat worm its way deeper and deeper into his stomach with every tick of the clock. Every second, minute, hour that slipped away, steadily chipping away at the time he had left in the company of his husband.

Possibly, all the time he would ever have.

The sun sank over the horizon. Shadows swung long, then faded into twilight. Into night.

_By the time the sun rises again, Logan will already be gone._

_He might as well already be, right now._

All too quickly, Patton was lying on his back on his bed, feeling the mattress sigh as Logan shifted beside him. A book was spread in his husband’s hands as he read by the lamplight. Patton gazed up at him, sorrow washing over his whole body.

_A promotion was all he ever wanted?_

He didn’t even process that he was moving until he was already pushing to his knees. Patton leaned against Logan, placing a hand gently to his chest, feeling his warm hum rumble through it. He let his eyes drift shut and closed his lips over the sensitive spot right under Logan’s ear where his neck met his jaw.

Logan immediately inhaled, turning his head as best he could while Patton dragged his mouth slowly down the tendons of his neck. Feeling his pulse quicken under his lips. His hand slid down the planes of Logan’s chest through the shirt, snaking around his narrow waist and spreading his fingers wide. 

“Patton,” Logan breathed, but Patton just shut his eyes and sucked on the skin above his collarbone, laving with the tip of his tongue wherever it hurt. Logan gasped softly every time he nipped gently with his teeth. His hands suddenly splayed over either side of Patton’s hips and gripped him, hard. One swing of his leg, and Patton was straddling him as his mouth continued to trail over his shoulders, collar, neck, jawline.

Everywhere he touched his husband’s body didn’t feel close enough. He swiftly drew his shirt up over his head and then kissed him open-mouthed at the corner of his mouth, his motions clumsy and hurried. Growing desperate to feel him, to _touch him._

_Hold him for as long as I have left._

Logan’s back arched underneath him as Patton slid up the hem of his shirt with the heels of his palms and pressed their bare abdomens together. His skin was hot against his own. His lips were searing, nearly _molten_ where they joined, parting to let breaths and moans escape and then crashing back together, hot and wet.

_I need you closer. Closer, please, close like you’re never going to be parted from me ever again…_

Patton clutched his husband tight to him. He rolled his hips and groaned into Logan’s mouth at the pressure, at the hardness that pressed back through both of their pants, the arcs of pleasure that lashed through his body with every roll.

“ _Patton_.” Logan arched into his bare chest, gasping his name. Patton slid one hand along the upwards curve of his spine and kissed him while the fingertips of his other hand trailed his jaw.

“I love you,” Patton breathed. He kissed him, ground him into the mattress, panted through both the soft, sharp keens spilling from both of their lips. “I love you, Logan, God, _oh_ -”

Logan bucked up to meet the next roll of his hips, and his hand fisted in Logan’s dark hair at the friction. “I love… love you too,” he murmured into the hollow of his neck.

“Closer… Lo, please, I need to feel you, touch you, please…”

_Don’t leave me._

Logan’s arms wrapped around his lower back. One palm slid up his freckled shoulder blades to bury into his curls. “Pat…”

“Don’t leave.” The words slid out as easy as any moan. Patton licked into Logan’s mouth and tightened his grip in his hair like it could hold him there forever.

“Pat, I’ll come back, _ah_ …” he gasped. “I’ll always come back, I promise…”

They weren’t close enough. Skin to skin, hearts beating against one another, but Patton’s chest still felt like it was caving in. He clutched Logan’s face and pressed their sweaty foreheads together, panting heavily, still grinding their hips in short jerks, mouths open and inches apart.

Patton swallowed, his eyes squeezed shut. “Please don’t leave,” he whispered.

“I’ll come back to you,” Logan breathed, rubbing his hands up and down Patton’s back, pulling him down on top of him. Fingertips grazing the waistband of his pants. 

Then, achingly slowly, those hands slid underneath the waistband, over that skin, and Patton could do nothing beyond lose himself in the feeling. Everywhere they touched. Every ache of pleasure they wrung out of him.

_Please don’t leave._

_I’ll come back to you._

All through the night, nowhere amid their panting breaths and mouth-captured moans did Logan promise not to leave.

* * *

It was overcast midafternoon by the time Logan finally made it to the Continental Army’s camp outside Yorktown. Stepping back into the war camp felt like exhaling a breath he didn’t know he had been holding - walking his horse between the long rows of mismatched tents, seeing the men cook army meals over low-flickering campfires, hearing the din of clinks and rustles and murmurings all around him.

_And this time around, I’m going to be leading these men._

Remy had ridden out to congratulate him on making it into command as soon as their scouts had spotted him over the hills. Virgil, on the other hand, met him at the end of the line, his mouth quirked into that half-smile despite the exhaustion under his eyes. 

“Glad I caught you before I headed out,” he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

Logan touched his shoulder, too. “Headed out?”

“Yeah. I’m being deployed to South Carolina,” he shrugged. “Squadron marches tonight.”

“Oh.” Logan’s mood fell a little, but he didn’t let it show on his face. Every time he imagined this moment, he’d been hoping to lead his victory charge alongside Virgil. 

“Hey.” Virgil said. “You’re back in the saddle, and that’s what matters. Besides, South Carolina has the worst slaveholding conditions in the colonies - those British plantation owners brought ‘em up from the Caribbean. If all goes well, I’ll be bashing Loyalists left and right at the same time I’m breaking their hold on their slaves.”

“That is… most likely the outcome,” said Logan. “Well. If I don’t see you again before you leave… I hope you have fun down South. Be careful, but… have fun.”

“You too,” grinned Virgil. He jerked his purple-dyed head at the general’s tent, only a few paces down the dirt-trampled path. “Give ‘em hell, Hamilton. I’ll see you on the other side, huh?”

“Yeah.” Before he could step away, Logan tentatively brought him into a hug. Virgil hesitated for a moment, but Logan eventually felt him wrap his arms around his waist and smiled into the shoulder of his oldest friend’s worn soldier’s jacket. When they parted, Virgil gave him one last two-finger salute before shoving his hands into his pockets and heading off through the rows of white tents.

Logan watched him go. And then, he strode up to the general’s headquarters and lifted the flap to duck inside.

Thomas turned, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The general’s smile was slow, easy, and relieved to take in his old right hand man in the doorway. “Logan,” he said.

“Sir,” he replied.

Two steps, and Logan was wrapped in yet another embrace - this one arguably tighter and more enthusiastic than Virgil’s, but that was just how Thomas was. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. “I received word that our French allies have just moved into position to block the British from retreating out the mouth of the Chesapeake. Everything’s in position for a decisive assault on Yorktown.”

Logan swallowed. “And you’re… really giving me command?”

Thomas smiled, nodding. “I have 400 light infantry troops that will yield to your orders during the fight,” he said. “You’re a leader, Logan, through and through, and it was high time your rank reflected that.”

_Just in time to snag an American victory._

“I’ll make you proud, sir,” he assured him. “Point me to my men and the armory. I’ll get started prepping them right away. When do we march?”

Thomas didn’t reply - he just gazed at Logan for a long moment, his expression indecisive. Logan frowned. “Is… something wrong?”

“No,” he said eventually. He patted Logan on the shoulder. “I just… want to tell you something I wish I’d known when I was in your position. Young and dreaming of battlefield glory and national fame.”

“What’s that?”

Thomas sighed. “I was younger than you are now when I was given my first command,” he explained slowly, “and I made every mistake. I led my men straight into a massacre. I witnessed them die around me. It really hit me, then, the reality of things.” He shook his head. “The thing is… you can do absolutely everything in your power to try to change your fate and the fates of your loved ones, but in the end, you have no control over who lives or dies or even tells your story.”

Logan stared at the general. He went on. “Don’t think I’m saying this because I don’t have faith in you, Logan. Believe me, I have complete faith in your abilities. I know you’ve got the spark of real greatness in you. I just want you to know… from the moment you pick up your officer’s sword,” he said, patting the pommel of his own, “history is going to have its eyes on you.”

“I understand,” Logan said quietly.

“All I’m asking is, are you sure you’re ready for that?”

He squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir. I am.”

* * *

On September 28th, 1781, the battle for Yorktown began. By October 14th, their troops had moved close enough to the British defenses to allow the Continental Army to finally storm them head-on.

Virgil had already been deployed south to redefine bravery in the slave plantations. Remy came to find Logan before he moved his own troops to the Chesapeake Bay, offering him one last embrace of condolences before the fighting. “ _Monsieur_ Hamilton,” he smiled in the predawn darkness. “Finally in command where you belong, eh?”

Logan shrugged. Inside, his insides were swarming with excitement and anticipation. “As you say, no sweat,” he replied.

“Come on. You were meant to be here, _ami_. Immigrants - we get the job done, am I right?”

“I can’t argue with that,” Logan smirked.

Remy laughed. “Oi, did you hear who got us all the tactical information to plan this assault?”

“No, who?”

“ _Joan Mulligan_ ,” the Frenchman grinned. 

“Did he really?” asked Logan. Joan had left the camps for New York a few years back, supposedly to return to their tailor apprenticeship - but as Thomas’ aide-de-camp, Logan knew what Joan’s orders really were. 

They’d been recruited by the Sons of Liberty as a spy on the British government, smuggling measurements and information back to the Continental Army. Logan could only imagine how stoked they must have been to have a job like that. He could almost hear the refrains they would compose: “ _My name is Joan Mulligan, I need no introduction / When you knock me down, I get the fuck back up again!_ ”

“Good for him,” said Logan. “Where is he now?”

“Still in New York, I think. Out of harm’s way.”

Distantly, the war camp began to stir. Horses pranced as they were saddled and mounted, soldiers clambered out of their tents as they hoisted their guns over their shoulders. The marquis tapped Logan on the arm. “Go. Lead your men, Logan. I’ll see you on the other side of the war, alright? Drinks on me for everyone.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Logan. “Till we meet again, Remy.”

Remy waved, adjusted his sword, and strode off to the river. Logan made for the meeting place Thomas had assigned his column of troops.

_Four hundred men in my command. Not nearly that many will make it through the battle._

_I might be one of those that don’t._

One time, long ago, that thought hadn’t bothered Logan very much. Martyrdom was a worthy way to die. But every time Logan thought about the possibility of staring his death in the face on the other side of a British redoubt, he suddenly remembered Patton, alone at home in New York. Patton, who Logan had left alone for a second time, who he’d abandoned in favor of battlefield glory twice now. 

Patton, who still wanted a baby. Who had everything ready for bringing a child into their family.

Marching through the humid Virginia twilight, Logan found that he had a new priority this time.

_Don’t throw away my shot. Lead my men into victory. Start a new nation._

_And stay alive long enough to meet my child._

A cluster of sergeants immediately straightened upon seeing Logan approach. Beyond them, the regiment knelt in preparation behind a large hill. “Orders, sir?” said one of the sergeants.

Logan set his chin. “We’re to storm Redoubt No. 10. Tonight,” he said. “The new moon will provide us the element of surprise, but this assault must be kept absolutely silent. Have your men take the bullets out of their guns while we march.”

The sergeants blinked. “Sir, if we’re ambushed, the men won’t have time to reload.”

“They have bayonets to defend themselves. Stealth is critical. We will move undercover as one, and we absolutely cannot let a stray gunshot give away our position.” He gripped the hilt of his sword as he gazed across the moonless hills. “When we get to the redoubt, we fight up close. Do not let our momentum drop.”

“What is the order to begin the attack, sir?”

“Rochambeau,” said Logan. The name of another one of their French allies. “Pass it along to the men. Understand?”

“Rochambeau. Yes, sir,” they nodded.

“Good. You have your orders, now go.”

Ahead of them, the redoubts of the fort at Yorktown loomed in the gathering dark. Logan stared them down long after his sergeants dispersed.

* * *

And so, the American experiment began.

It took a week of brutal fighting. Gunshots and cannon fire rang through their ears. Blood stained the earth, the grasses, the pikes of the redoubts. White smoke was sometimes so thick in the air, they couldn’t see their own hands in front of them.

But they pushed on. Logan escaped death with every bullet that passed him by until one day, he looked up to see that he had survived to reap the fruits of their efforts.

A young man in a red coat stood on a parapet, frantically waving a white handkerchief in surrender. All around him, guns lowered. The pops of gunpowder diminished. Just like that, it was over. The battle. The war.

British rule over America.

Both armies tended to their wounded. Counted their dead. Assessed their prisoners. Thomas negotiated the terms of total British surrender with General Cornwallis, and then the redcoats slowly began to escort themselves out of Yorktown.

And out of the colonies.

_We won._

People flooded the streets. Church bells rang nonstop across the land. Tens of thousands of people, taking up the chant.

_We won._

Logan stood among the riotous crowds as they screamed American victory. All he could think of was Patton.

_Patton, we won. We won, and I’m alive. I’m coming home._

_I’m going to meet our child._

As the fallen British foes retreated, they murmured a slow drinking song with every defeated step. Logan couldn’t imagine a more fitting cadence to herald in the new world the Americans had just created.

_"The world turned upside down_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patton boi just wants a kid, poor baby :/
> 
> The war is over, but the story is not. What's in store for them now? We'll just have to see...


	8. Like You're Running Out Of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: offscreen major character death

It was a quiet night in the Burr household. Janus lay beside a fast-asleep Theodosia in the little bedroom of their New York home, which was tucked away in an unassuming corner of town. 

Theodosia’s British officer husband had succumbed to yellow fever little over a year prior. Upon hearing the news, she and Janus had married in a small ceremony and settled in together.

A small fussing noise from down the hall announced the product of that settling in.

Theodosia was still asleep. Careful not to disturb her, Janus eased himself out from under the sheet and crept out of their cozy room. He peered through the doorway into the nursery.

 _Nursery._ It was so strange to Janus that he owned such a room. There was a wooden mobile hanging gently from a nail in the ceiling. A bassinet with a yellow knitted blanket underneath.

And strangest of all to him… a baby within the bassinet. A daughter. _His_ daughter. He had a real human daughter in his house.

The baby made another fussing sound. Before she woke up fully and started crying, rousing his wife from her hard-earned consecutive hours of sleep, Janus was in the room, gently gathering the baby up in his arms.

“Shh,” he attempted to soothe, wincing at how ridiculous he must sound. Hissing at the child in hopes that it would calm down. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing. _What to even say to a newborn?_

To his shock, though, his daughter’s fidgeting did calm down. Her little fist gripped the knit blanket he’d swaddled her in. Her big eyes blinked slowly up at him, and Janus’ heart softened just a little.

“Good evening,” he murmured to her. Which was ridiculous, naturally she didn’t understand English yet, but Janus couldn’t help but speak to her anyway. “Little Theodosia.”

For his daughter shared her mother’s name, as well as his dual-colored eyes. Janus had been so surprised to see his own heterochromia staring back at him when she’d been born. It had hardly seemed real that the squirming infant was truly his, even when the eyes alone made that fact obvious. It still barely seemed real.

“At least you haven’t got the snake’s scales,” he said to her, cracking a smile. He held out his brown-flecked finger, and his daughter wrapped her own unblemished one around it. His smile grew even more. “Though I’m sure you could have pulled off the look just as well as me even if you did.”

Her grip was surprisingly strong for such a delicate-looking thing. Infants were quite the mix of contradictions. Janus wasn’t even sure he was holding her right, but she seemed comfortable enough in the crook of his arm so he didn’t dare shift his cautious grip.

“You know,” he murmured, wiggling his finger back and forth in her grip, “my father… he wasn’t around when I was young. Domestic life isn’t quite my style either, but I’m trying my best to be around for you.” He smiled. “You’re practically the same age as this nation, Theodosia. You’ll come of age alongside it someday.”

_And I want to be there to make it right for you. I want to have a hand in ensuring this country is worthy to be passed onto you. I’ll do whatever it takes._

“My dear Theodosia,” he whispered in the soft, dark room.

* * *

New York City Adoption Home.

Patton was positive he had to be strangling Logan’s fingers in his grip while they waited, but he couldn’t pry them away if he wanted to. His heart was beating out of his chest so hard he was surprised his cravat didn’t reflect the pounding.

He met Logan’s gaze. His husband tried to give him a reassuring smile, but Patton could see the anxious clench of his jaw and the stiffness in the line of his shoulders. 

An attendant poked their head through the door, and Patton instantly shot to his feet. “Mr. and Mr. Hamilton?” they asked.

“Yes,” Patton squeaked.

The attendant smiled, then nudged their way fully through the door, bearing a small bundle of pale pink and blue cloth in their arms. “Here he is,” they said. “Meet your new son.”

_My new son._

Patton could barely breathe. He reached out for the bundle, gently easing back a fold of fabric to reveal the infant’s face.

Two red cheeks like little apples. A tuft of blonde hair. And blue eyes, wide open and gazing around at everything.

_My son._

After a brief glance to the attendant, Patton eased the bundle from their arms into his own. He was warm against his chest. He felt the child’s legs move and kick within the blanket.

And he gazed up at Patton. He could have sworn, those eyes were the same color as his own.

Patton could have melted from the sheer, overwhelming love that all but knocked him over. 

“Hi, kiddo,” he said. “Hi there. I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you.” _Oh, I’m going to cry, I just know it._

He couldn’t control his smile. He looked to Logan, still standing rigid as a statue by his chair, whose eyes were almost as round as the baby’s. _Our baby. Our son…_

“C’mere,” said Patton, inclining his head. “Come meet your son, Lo.”

So slowly, so tentatively, he crossed the room one step at a time. Patton gently raised the infant’s head as though to let him see him arrive. “That’s your papa,” he whispered. “Look, here he comes.”

Logan stared at the infant for a long time. His hand came up to touch Patton on the shoulder, and he swallowed, as though unable to find the right words to convey what was no doubt whirling through his brilliant mind.

Patton just grinned. “Well? What do you have to say to your new baby, Lo?”

Logan just swallowed again. “Salutations,” he said, his voice cracking. Patton laughed and leaned his head into Logan’s shoulder as his eyes filled with joyous tears.

“This one… you’re sure this one is ours?” Logan asked the attendant.

They simply nodded. “He’s yours, Mr. Hamilton. The Picani family signed the papers this morning. You’re taking him home today.”

Logan made some sort of strangled half-laugh and reverently brought his hand up to cover Patton’s on the blanket where he held him.

“Do you have a name picked out?” asked the attendant.

“Emile,” said Logan, meeting Patton’s teary gaze. “After your father.”

The attendant nodded, picking up a quill to confirm the name. “Mr. Hamilton?”

“Yes,” Patton nodded. “Emile Hamilton. Our son. Our baby Emile…”

“I can’t believe we have a son,” whispered Logan. His brown eyes were still fixed on Emile’s big blue ones. “I have a son…”

“Do you want to hold him?” Patton asked.

His husband blinked, caught off-guard yet again. “I… uh…”

“Here.” He maneuvered the bundle into Logan’s arms, infinitely gently. Logan scrambled to hold him properly. “Support his head, Lo… there. That’s your son, honey.”

“Emile,” beamed Logan, and Patton’s heart ached with sudden joy. _There’s that smile. That beaming grin he saves only for the strongest moments of happiness._

_This is one of those moments for him. Finally._

“Here I was, thinking I was so smart,” Logan murmured to the bundle in his arms. “But you… you outshine the morning sun. You knock me out. I… I don’t even know how to convey how I’m feeling about you.”

“That proud of him already?” asked Patton, pressing himself into Logan’s shoulder and embracing them both. 

“Pride… no, pride is not the word I’m looking for. There is… so much more inside me right now.”

“Well, take your time,” he grinned. “You’ve got a whole lifetime to put those thoughts into words. There’s no rush today.”

Logan smiled and brushed the most careful of kisses to Emile’s forehead, and the baby made a soft gurgle. “I will give our son the world,” he said. “I will bleed and fight to lay a strong foundation for him and every other child of his generation but especially for him…”

“Shh,” said Patton, pressing his lips to Logan’s just to quiet him. “Later.”

They leaned their heads together, holding their new son close. No more war splitting them apart. There was a lifetime spent together ahead of them, and Patton closed his eyes against Logan’s shoulder. 

“Someday,” Logan whispered. “This son of ours is going to blow us all away.”

* * *

Logan was entranced.

In all honesty, raising a child of his own had never been particularly high on his rank of life goals, but now that he had one… he was surprised just how strongly he felt about the strange little wiggling creature in his house. Patton carried Emile around everywhere he went, as though he didn’t want to be away for a second, but in the brief moments when he set their son down to do something else around the house, Logan was there. Holding their baby. Gazing into blue eyes that were somehow almost the same color as his beloved husband’s.

It was during one of those moments with Emile when Logan heard the door open downstairs. He smiled at his son in his arms. “That would be your father with the mail,” he said, placing him down gently into his bassinet and descending their narrow steps.

Patton was there in the hall, the hem of his day dress dusted with dirt from the city roads. There was a worry line drawn between his brows, but he smiled through it. “Where’s Emile?”

“I set him down for a nap,” said Logan. He noted the letter in his husband’s hands. “Just one, today? Who’s it for?”

Patton turned it over, working his jaw and sending him an anxious look. His hand covered the name of the sender except for the surname - _Laurens._ “It’s for you,” he said.

“Ah. From Virgil, I assume. I’ll read it later, I’ve got that Levy Weeks trial to get back to working on -”

“No. It’s… from his father.”

Logan frowned. Patton still looked ill at ease, and something about his husband’s worried expression sent the smallest curl of dread though his stomach. “His father?”

“I didn’t open it.” He held it out, and Logan took it off his hands. “He’s never contacted us before. Logan, I…” He didn’t finish the sentence. His fear was plain on his face.

Feeling that dread curl tighter, Logan slit open the letter and unfolded it.

And immediately, all feeling ceased.

_Mr. Logan Hamilton,_

_On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina. The war was already over. As you know, Virgil dreamed of emancipating and recruiting three thousand men for the first all-black military regiment. His dream of freedom for these men dies with him._

_This news, I’m sure, comes with great suffering upon you, being his close friend and confidante from the war. His family and friends grieve this loss bitterly…_

There were more words. The longer Logan stared at the letter, the more the letters swam before his eyes into nonsensical drabblings.

_Virgil._

“Logan?” whispered Patton, placing his hands on his arms. Logan didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. Hearing the words ring in his ears. Not processing them.

_Virgil._

_Killed in a gunfight after the war had already ended. Killed while redefining bravery. Killed while living his dream._

_Virgil. Killed._

A tide of emotion surged through him, so suddenly he gasped. He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could see was that last moment in the war camp, watching Virgil with his purple hair and shadowed silver eyes salute him as he vanished between the white tents. Hair and eyes and salutes that none of them would ever see again.

 _I’ll see you on the other side_ , Virgil had said. They’d both thought he meant the war.

_It was only supposed to be the other side of the war._

“Are you alright?”

Logan opened his eyes again. The worry crease between Patton’s brows had only deepened. Fearing that all of his logic would be overwhelmed by his emotions if he tried to answer that question, Logan folded the letter sharply and set it down a little too hard on the hallway side table.

“I have so much work to do,” was all he murmured before setting off for his office.

* * *

The world was changing rapidly around them. Logan threw himself into his work.

While the Articles of Confederation floundered in the political sphere, service in the public sector was calling his name. He finished up his studies at King’s College and went into law practice. In the wake of everything that had happened, Logan found the change of pace refreshing. Reinvigorating. With each case, he faced injustice in the world and corrected it. It reignited that spark.

Janus, having followed a similar path after the war, ended up being his partner and co-counsel on more than one case. The man was incredible in court - succinct, persuasive, and well-spoken, but he didn’t have the same drive.

And even though they started at the very same time, Logan’s non-stop attitude was what accounted for his quick rise through the ranks.

Still, though. It wasn’t quite enough.

Eventually, it became glaringly apparent that the Articles of Confederation were a thoroughly useless structure of government, and prominent figures from all across the seaboard were summoned to Philadelphia for a new Constitutional Convention.

Logan was overjoyed to find that his name had been chosen for the New York delegate team.

“Gosh, Lo,” said Patton. He read over the letter with wide eyes while Logan whirled through their home, grabbing his coat. “This… is huge.”

“I know. Can you believe it?” he exclaimed. “I was chosen for the _Constitutional Convention_. I’ll be right there in the room where our new government gets drawn up, shaping it into something that both you and Emile can be proud of.”

“But, honey, what about your law practice?”

“New York can do with one less lawyer for the summer.”

“Well, what about your family?” Patton put his hands on his hips, pouting his lower lip just a smidge. “What if your son can’t do with one less father for the summer?”

Logan paused his rushing to offer him a smile. “You’ll do just fine without me, Pat,” he said, kissing him briefly. “Besides, when I see you next, I will have springboarded our family into national headlines. I’ve got the six-hour speech all prepared…”

Patton opened his mouth to say something, but Logan was already out the door.

One summer. The new constitution was drafted. Everywhere Logan went, every new sector he stepped into, he was met with the same reactions.

_Why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room?_

_Why do you always say what you believe? Don’t you know that every proclamation only gives your enemies free ammunition to use against you?_

_Why do you write like there’s no tomorrow, like you need it to survive? Writing, writing, always writing… Why do you write like you’re running out of time?_

_How do you seem to write every single second you’re alive?_

It wasn’t enough. No matter how hard Logan and the rest of the rising Federalist faction pushed, their Anti-Federalist opposition - spooked by Britain’s tyranny and despotism - only seemed to grow more vehement. America needed a strong central democracy, but not enough states could see that. The Constitution would never be ratified at this rate.

Logan realized that for once, the issue might be too big for him to tackle alone and barehanded. So, that’s how he found himself on his law partner’s doorstep in the middle of the night.

Janus blinked across the threshold at him. “Logan?” he asked.

“Janus. May we confer?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait,” said Logan. “I need your assistance on a legal matter that has become very important to me. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re a better lawyer than I am. My abrasiveness will get me nowhere in this endeavor I’m about to take on.”

Janus stared at him.

Logan sighed. “I need your skill at defense. The entire country is at stake.”

“Entire country?” he frowned. “What case is this? Who in the world is your client?”

“The new United States Constitution.”

Understanding settled over Janus’ features and he crossed his arms. “Oh, I see what this is,” he said, “you’re trying to drag me into your partisan pit fighting again.”

“It’s not pit fighting.”

“Reports from Philadelphia this past summer claim otherwise.”

“Look,” said Logan, “I’m not asking you to get up on a podium and deliver a speech in front of the world. All I’m proposing is that you help me publish a series of essays defending the document to the public. Fully anonymous.”

“Essays? Come on. No one will read that,” Janus scoffed.

“I disagree.”

“The Constitution’s a _mess_ of contradictions.”

He sighed. “I admit, the document will need the occasional amendment, but we have to start somewhere. We can’t keep going with these infernal Articles, we’ll drive our own country into the ground with weak leadership. Please, Janus, help the Federalists save the nation.”

“Pass.”

 _God, he’s just as infernal._ “You’re making a mistake,” he insisted.

“ _Goodnight_ , Logan.”

“Hey.” Logan grabbed the door before the lawyer could close it. “What are you waiting for?”

“What?” Janus blinked.

“You do nothing but wait for your opportunities to come to you. What did we study and fight and kill for, if not a nation that we get to build from the ground up, right now? Do you or do you not support the Constitution?”

“I… understand its merits -”

“ _Then defend it_. I don’t understand how you can be satisfied standing to the side like this.”

Janus set his chin, narrowing his dual-colored eyes at Logan. “Luckily,” he bit, “no one asked you to. Publish what you want. I’ll be sitting here waiting to see which way the wind blows and making sure I’m not getting caught on the wrong side of progress.”

“Or you could be at the forefront,” said Logan. “Actively making sure that the progress you want to see gets implemented.”

He huffed a laugh. “That’s always been more your forte. I’d rather leave that to you,” he said. And he shut the door in his face.

Logan sighed heavily. _Fine. Let him be that way._

_I’ll publish those essays, with or without him. There are plenty of other Federalists who’d be willing to take his place behind the quill._

_I’m seeing this Constitution ratified if it’s the last thing I do._

* * *

“ _Eighty five essays?_ ”

Logan shrugged as Roman gawked across the cafe table. “You never _could_ be satisfied with the status quo, could you. How many were you initially planning on publishing, again?”

“Twenty five. John Jay got sick after writing barely a fifth of that. Madison, to his credit, managed to write twenty nine himself.”

Roman ticked off the mental math, then his mouth dropped open again. “So you wrote the _other fifty-one?_ ”

“You say that as though people _don’t_ know me for the speed of my pen.”

“I’ll say.” Roman shook his head, then sent him a mischievous smirk. “So. How does Patton take that _speedy pen_ of yours, hm?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “ _Patton_ has been an immense help throughout the entire process. Many of the final drafts were sent to the publisher in his handwriting, actually. I couldn’t have done it all without him.” Cracking a tentative smirk of his own, he said airily, “When my wrist grew too tired to continue, Patton was often there to take over and… alleviate the strain somewhat.”

“Hm. Good to know my brother’s _satisfying_ your needs,” said Roman, sipping his tea to hide his smirk. 

“He… does a fine job of that.”

The two of them enjoyed a moment of content silence at their cafe table. Outside, the newly-freed citizens of the United States of America milled this way and that along the streets in the warm, spring air. 

Roman eventually set his cup down and leaned back in his chair. “I’m glad we got to spend this time together before I leave for London,” he said. “I’m not going to lie. I’ll miss you.”

“And I, you,” Logan admitted. “But you’ll have John and his sizable coffers to keep you company across the sea, won’t you?”

Roman shrugged. He had married John Barker Church in grand ceremony less than a year ago, and the couple were set to move to England to pursue Church’s career. Their departure was only a few days away. Roman had spent a good deal of time in the Hamilton house, enjoying his brother and brother in law’s company as much as he could with the time he had left, but Logan still appreciated this small excursion of their own, with just the two of them.

“Oh, they’re sizable, alright,” he said. “Still, though, it won’t be the same from an… intellectual standpoint. Not as though anyone could match _you_ for turn of phrase.”

“I should think not,” he grinned.

Roman’s green eyes met his own. “You’ll remember to write, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he said.

“I mean it. I want to stay up to date on all the political gossip. And domestic gossip. If that witch of a neighbor of yours shoos Emile off her porch again, I want to know. If you and Patton adopt another kid, I want to know.”

“It shall be done,” he assured him. “Every time you receive another letter from me, it’ll feel like you’re back home with us.”

Roman nodded down at his tea. “Thank you,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

* * *

“Lo.”

Logan glanced up to find Patton standing before his desk, arms crossed over his middle and a frown on his freckled face. He rose from where he’d been packing books into a small bag. “Salutations,” he said.

“Logan.”

He sighed. “Pat, I’m sorry. I have to leave.”

“That’s all you ever seem to do nowadays,” his husband said. 

“I know. And I’m sorry, I truly am,” he said. “But this time it really cannot be helped.”

“Senior aide-de-camp.” Patton shook his head. “Lieutenant-Colonel. Lawyer. Constitutional delegate. And now, the nation’s first Secretary of the Treasury. Honey, isn’t this enough?”

“Thomas is asking me to lead.”

“ _Logan_.” Patton took hold of his arms, his blue eyes searching his. “Where’s the end goal to all this? You’re always forging ahead, you say it’s for Emile and the rest of this nation, but why… why can’t our current lifestyle, our _family_ , ever be enough for you? What would be enough?” 

Logan’s heart cracked at the desperation, _helplessness_ , in Patton’s eyes. “You _are_ enough,” he said gently, cupping his hands to his jaw. “Patton, love, you’re everything I could have asked for in a companion, and then some. You and Emile mean the absolute world to me, and every single day I count myself indescribably lucky to have you in my life.” 

His hands slid down to take his husband’s hands and squeeze them. “But outside the walls of this house… there’s just too much left that I haven’t done. You are more than enough in my domestic sphere, but I have to consider my occupational sphere for fulfilment in this life as well.”

Patton’s eyes closed and he sighed resignedly. Logan leaned in and kissed him, sealing their lips and trying to convey every ounce of his genuine love through the gesture. “I love you, Patton,” he murmured.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back. 

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.” With that, and one final kiss, Logan picked up his bag and headed downstairs. Out the front door. Into the sunlight and the possibilities of the future.

As he strode through New York City, voices and memories of his own ambition flickered through his mind.

_He will never be satisfied._

_History has its eyes on you._

_Why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room?_

_He’s just non-stop._

_Why do you write like you’re running out of time?_

_Raise a glass to freedom._

Those last words slowed Logan’s steps, but they did not stop them. For the first time since that letter arrived at his doorstep, Logan thought of Virgil’s face, his words, and even though the loss still hurt him… he found that his grief had begun to give way in part to determination.

Smiling softly to himself, he kept moving forward. 

_I’m doing this for my son and all the future American generations, but also for you, Virgil. I’m going to make this country into a nation worthy of your ultimate sacrifice._

_I am not throwing away my shot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So concludes Act 1 ;)
> 
> To everyone who has left comments, know that I read them all (even if I don't reply) and I love every one of you <3  
> To my readers that have made it this far, I'm so glad that you like this fic enough to stick with it. As always, feel free to kudo or comment at your leisure!
> 
> Unfortunately, plot-wise, it's all downhill from here...


	9. Headfirst Into A Political Abyss

The grand estate of Monticello gleamed atop its Virginia hill. Standing before the soaring pillars, Remus Jefferson let out a long sigh. The essence of revolutionary France had clung to him all the way across the Atlantic, but now that he could plant his feet on his own American property, the weight of his experiences as a foreign ambassador finally lifted away. 

_Remus Jefferson’s coming home_ , he thought cheerfully to himself as he strode through the front doors, leaving his valets to unload his mountain of luggage themselves.

“Mr. Jefferson, sir!”

He stopped short, whirling around to find one of his manor staff jogging up and cutting a brief curtsey. “Welcome home, sir. There’s a letter for you.”

He sighed. “Darling, I just got here. Would you be a lamb and open it for me while I get myself settled?”

“Certainly, sir.” The girl stepped out of the way of the valet team hoisting a particularly enormous trunk between them. Remus put his hands on his hips and surveyed the entrance hall.

_France might be following us to revolution, but damn if it isn’t nice to wash my hands of political turmoil at last._

“Sir, this letter… it’s from the president.”

 _Speak of the devil, and it shall appear._ “What does he want?” Remus sighed.

“He’s assembling a cabinet to assist him with policy making decisions in the capitol. He’s requesting that you join him as Secretary of State.”

“Is he, now?” He raised a brow, considering the position. A promotion from the position of foreign ambassador. Practically Thomas’ right hand man. “Well, I can hardly deny him the pleasure of my company in New York City, can I? Especially after I was so rudely exiled to France for the course of the late 80’s.”

“I… suppose not.”

“Gentlemen!” Remus twirled a finger in the air to get his panting valets’ attention. They dropped another trunk into the ever-growing pile in the middle of the hall. Remus just shot them a wide grin. “Pack it back up, boys, we’re heading to New York.”

The valets exchanged exasperated looks over the mountain of luggage. Remus just swept right back outside, swirling his favorite garish green jacket behind him.

* * *

Another couple days by carriage and Remus reached New York with his ensemble in tow. After cramming his things in a hotel room - he’d invest in real estate of his own eventually - he made his way to the main government building where President Thomas had set up shop.

He took the air deep into his lungs. Looking around at the bustling city, he was struck with the same thought he’d had his entire journey north along the rolling fields and rivers. 

_I can’t believe we’re really free._

No lobsterbacks lurked on the street corners. No British troops pounded on doors and drank up the citizens’ ale. They were gone, America was free, and Remus was going to be at the head of its foundation as a nation. There was nothing to get in his way.

There was someone sitting morosely on the front steps of the government building when Remus approached. Catching sight of him, the man shot to his feet. Remus grinned. “Madison!”

“Remus.” Madison grabbed his arm, his expression distressed. “Thank God you’re here, where have you been?”

“Uh, France?”

“Listen. You gotta get us out of this mess. The cabinet’s a disaster.”

“Can’t be any worse than the factions in the French government,” Remus chuckled.

Madison looked skeptical. “Have you heard of Logan Hamilton?” he asked.

Remus had. That name had trickled across the pond, but only in passing. “Somewhat,” he said. “Wasn’t that guy an aide-de-camp of Thomas’ in the war?”

“He was _the_ aide-de-camp, and now he’s the Secretary of the Treasury, stirring up all kinds of issues. His financial plan… it’s downright tyrannous. It’s nothing less than total government control.”

Remus sighed. “Well. Guess I’ll just have to give this little upstart a good talking-to. That oughta calm him down.” Upon noticing Madison’s fervent head shaking, Remus asked, “What? You don’t think Remus Jefferson can intimidate one little pipsqueak?”

“Logan Hamilton isn’t like any politician you’ve ever met before, Remus,” Madison insisted. “One talking-to isn’t going to stop him, not even from you. The man roasts his verbal opponents like a pig over a spit, and that’s not even getting into his _writing_.” He wiped his sweating brow. “I’ve never seen anyone write nearly as much.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ve been fighting for the South alone, but I can’t hold my own for much longer, not against Logan. He’s whip-smart and downright _vicious_.”

“Sounds like me,” preened Remus.

“I think you’re the only person in the government who can stand toe to toe with him.” Madison gripped his arm tighter. “Remus, _we have to win._ ”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Maddi,” said Remus, patting his friend’s head with a grin. “I’ll protect our darling Virginia from the clutches of this evil little man.”

Madison sighed. “Good luck.”

Smirking, Remus ascended the steps and thrust open the doors to the building. 

President Thomas Washington was already there in the middle of the entrance hall, surrounded by a group of men, women, and nonbinary politicians Remus could only assume were the members of his cabinet. His future coworkers. 

“Mr. Jefferson!” Thomas extended his hand with a smile. “Welcome home.”

“Congrats on the promotion, General,” said Remus. “President, eh?”

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know why they all picked me, but I’m just glad the country has faith in my ability to lead. With you and the rest of my cabinet, I’ll hopefully be able to navigate the other responsibilities of the presidency.”

“Mr. Remus Jefferson?”

Remus blinked as suddenly another man pushed into their conversation to introduce himself. Remus gave him a once-over - tall, boxy glasses, a dark blue coat that was _three full years_ out of fashion, a cravat that was _much_ too flat, and a smile that was nothing but cool, clinical judgement. “Logan Hamilton,” the man said, his voice just as cool.

_Ah. So this is the vicious, whip-smart Treasury Secretary who’s encroaching on states’ rights._

“Pleasure,” was all Remus said, letting his disdain slip into his voice. Logan narrowed his eyes but Thomas cut him off before he could say anything.

_Save that for the cabinet, city boy. We’ll see who roasts who._

“I’ll give you some time to settle into New York. You’ve been gone for so long,” said Thomas, patting Remus on the back. “It’s good to have you back.”

“Good to be back,” he smirked in Logan’s direction, raising an eyebrow. “So, gentlemen… what’d I miss?”

* * *

Logan took one look at Remus Jefferson and hated him instantly _._

His unshaven mustache was made only more unprofessional by the garish hue of his jacket, something like lime bog water edged in black. Logan had never seen an uglier outfit. Remus, however, seemed to revel in his absurd fashion sense. He strode with all the preening confidence of a debutante at their own coming-into-society gala. 

That was an old-money confidence. A slaveholding confidence. Logan knew all about him. Remus Jefferson was everything Logan wasn’t. Southern. Wealthy. An established name in America.

And when Remus opened his mouth in their very first cabinet meeting, Logan hated the man even more.

“Welcome, secretaries,” said Thomas, folding his hands before him. “Now that everyone’s been given time to review the documents for discussion, I call this meeting to order.”

Remus lounged in the chair across the table from Logan. He caught Logan eyeing him and had the audacity to _wink._

_I swear…_

“The issue on the table,” the president continued, “Secretary Hamilton’s plan to assume state debt and establish a National Bank. The floor is open for debate for whoever would like to make their opening marks.”

Remus languidly pushed to his feet with a smirk. Logan gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from launching at him.

_Relax… let him speak…_

“Life. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness.”

_Oh, fuck no. This guy cannot seriously be quoting his own words…_

Remus smirked at the gathered cabinet and went on. “All of us fought for these ideals. Every enterprising person in the modern world holds these values, so why should we as a cabinet settle for anything less? Unless of course,” he added, “you’d like to vote in _favor_ of a plan concocted by someone who’s obviously _not_ with the times.”

Logan ground his jaw.

“ _Hamilton_ clearly forgets what the colonists were fighting against in the first place, if he has the gall to propose this plan to this cabinet. The federal government, assuming state’s debts?” Remus laughed. “I wonder who that’s supposed to benefit. My bet’s on the Treasury department’s coffers.”

“ _Falsehood_ ,” Logan snapped.

“Oh,” scoffed Remus, “if the shoe fits, wear it, Logan. I don’t see any reason why Virginia should carry the other states when we’re not the ones in debt.”

“It’s _called_ facilitating a community.”

“Logan,” said Thomas, “let Remus finish his statement, please.”

Logan growled and shot the Secretary of State a glare but held his tongue. And _oh_ , was it a feat with Remus grinning down at him.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” he preened. “As I was saying, we Virginians have a culture of creation. We plant our own seeds, craft our own goods, support ourselves with the fruits of our own labor.”

_Says the fucking slaveholder._

“The only labor Logan is proposing is moving our money around from the comfort of his desk.” Remus picked up his sheaf of papers - his copy of Logan’s plan - and waved it around dismissively. “This financial plan?” He smacked it back down, jolting everyone around the table. “It’s an _outrageous_ demand. Not to mention, it’s too many damn pages for anyone to bother reading, anyway.”

There were some murmurings of agreement around the table. Logan’s neck grew uncomfortably hot with indignation.

Remus raised his palms. “All I’m saying is if you want to truly lead a nation of the free, you’ll stand with me and block Logan’s debt plan. I mean,” he chuckled, “just look at how an overbearing federal government ended for Britain. When they taxed our tea, we threw a multimillion dollar revolution. That was _tea_ . Imagine what would happen if we tried to tax _whiskey_.”

More agreements from the table. Logan had known that the whiskey tax wouldn’t be overwhelmingly popular, but it still pissed him off to hear the most educated minds in the cabinet agreeing with Remus on the flippant topic of _alcohol._

“Thank you, Secretary Jefferson,” said Thomas. He gestured a hand in Logan’s direction. “Secretary Hamilton, do you have a response?”

Logan took a deep, calming breath and rose, straightening his jacket lapels. He shot Remus a deadly icy smile. “Remus,” he said cooly, “that was a stirring opening statement. Unfortunately for you, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re actually trying to run a real nation here. I recommend you either join us or quit the cabinet right now to return to whatever the hell it is you even do in Monticello.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. Logan pressed on. “I don’t see the confusion in my debt plan. Secretaries, if the federal government assumes all states’ debts, we establish a brand new line of competitive credit for the union as a whole. If we are aggressive in foreign markets, our country’s finances would get an enormous boost. Mr. Virginia over here would rather figuratively strip us of that advantage.”

“Please. I’d at least take you out to dinner first,” Remus snickered.

“Ah-ah.” Logan held up a finger, glaring down the man. “I said. _Figuratively_. And that is why I say it. If you insist on interrupting me, at least try to display a _little_ professionality.”

“Can we focus on the topic at hand, please?” offered Thomas.

“Apologies,” said Logan. “Where was I, before I was rudely interrupted?”

“Virginia,” drawled Remus.

“So I was. I’d like to take a moment and unpack your reasoning for opposing my plan, Remus. You said that, as a Virginian, you promote a culture of self-sustainable production. Tell me, how many tobacco seeds have you sown into your farmland yourself?”

“How is this relevant?”

“I thought so. Do you want to know _why_ your state has already paid off its debts from the war, Remus?” He pressed his palms flat to the table. “It’s because you _don’t pay for labor_. We all know who’s really doing all your planting.”

Hums of hesitant agreement. Remus snorted. 

“Oh, and another thing.” Logan jabbed a finger at him from across the table. “I don’t want to hear you lecturing _me_ about the revolution. You didn’t fight in it. _You_ were off getting high with the French all the way across the ocean, but me? I was in the war camps. I almost died a hundred times over in Yorktown. Don’t talk to me about war.”

Thomas patted his arm. “Alright, Logan, that’s enough-”

“You know, Remus? I don’t think your problem is with my debt plan at all,” snapped Logan. “I think you’re a backwards slaveholder who’s scared of any progress that would violate your backwards slaveholding way of life. You’d jettison any plan I or any other Northerner put on the table.”

“Now you’re just speculating,” interjected Madison.

“Oh, shut up, Madison, you’re out of your mind, too, following your precious buddy around like a sheepdog.”

“Logan -”

“I don’t know why I even bother arguing with you _Southerners_ ,” he spat. “Look at yourselves, sitting there useless as two shits while the rest of us try to get our country’s finances off the ground.”

“ _Your_ country?” Remus rose to standing again, leaning over the table to sneer in his face. “You think you can call this land your own when you weren’t even born here like the rest of us?”

Logan’s fists curled white on the tabletop. Fury boiled over inside him. “Remus?”

“Yeah?”

“How about you turn around and bend over. I’ll _show_ you where my shoe _fits_.”

“ _Excuse_ me!” hollered Thomas, shooting to his feet as the cabinet erupted into outrage and shoving the two secretaries apart before they launched into physical blows. Logan was ready to do just that. If the president hadn’t been holding him back, he would have punched that self-righteous smirk right off that Virginian’s mustached face.

“Remus, take a walk,” the president demanded. He stopped Logan from advancing. “Logan, _take a walk_. We’ll reconvene after a brief recess. Cabinet adjourned.”

Muttering to themselves, the rest of the room began to clear out. Snickering from Remus and his Southern cronies had Logan snarling in their direction.

“You don’t have the vo-otes,” sang Remus under his breath as he turned to saunter out of the room. “Talk big all you want, Lo-lo, but you’re gonna need Congressional approval for that debt plan and _you don’t have the votes_.”

“Oh, shove it up your-”

“ _Logan_ ,” snapped Thomas from a side door. “A _word_.”

He had that tone in his voice he always used as General. Biting back every retort - Logan knew just how bad of an idea it was to disobey that tone - he swallowed his pride and followed the president out.

Once the door was closed, Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed sharply. “Do you want to pull yourself together?” he demanded.

“I apologize for my outburst.” Logan crossed his arms. “But who should really be apologizing, sir, are the Virginians. Every last one of them is a slimy, good-for-nothing -”

“Young man, _I’m_ from Virginia,” Thomas warned. “Watch your mouth before you start talking down on an entire state’s population.”

“So, what? We’re just going to let them hold Congress hostage?”

The president sighed again. “We need their votes, Logan.”

“No, we need to start taking some more decisive action. We need to pass this plan.”

“And to do that, you need to convince more people to support it. Actually convince them. Not just slander everyone who speaks out against your ideas. I recommend starting with James Madison.”

Logan huffed. “James Madison refuses to talk to me. He’s being intransigent, just like the rest of them.”

“Well, you need to find a compromise,” Thomas insisted.

“Between what? They don’t have a counter-plan, they just hate mine.”

“So find a way to convince them to support it.” 

Logan sighed heavily. The president shook his head, and after a moment, he said, “Look, Logan. I’m not going to lie to you. Winning the war? That was easy. Governing this country is going to be unlike any challenge you’ve ever faced. You can’t fight yourself out of this one.”

He frowned with another reluctant sigh. “What happens if I don’t get Congressional approval?” he asked, quieter.

“Knowing them?” he shook his head. “I assume they’ll call for your removal from office.”

_Removal from office._

_They’ll kick me out of my job. I’ve never been closer to making a name for myself, and Remus and his cronies will fling me out of the limelight if I don’t pass my debt plan._

Logan couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t. He’d do anything to prevent that from happening.

“Figure it out, Logan.” Logan glanced up to see Thomas heading for the door, sending a sympathetic but resolute look over his shoulder. “That’s an order from your commander.”


	10. Take A Break

_My dearest, Roman,_

_“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day” - I trust you understand my reference to another Scottish tragedy besides that which has become my life of late. They think me Macbeth here, that ambition is my folly and I am but a pain in their ass, if you’ll pardon my French (I learned the language from Remy, you must understand). Madison is therefore Banquo, and Jefferson, MacDuff, and my Birnam Wood is Congress on its way to Dunsinane._

_Must you live an ocean away? Thoughts of you subside, but each time I receive another letter I cannot put the notion fully away…_

Roman stared at the letter in his hand. It was obnoxiously long, multiple pages of Logan’s usual wordy writing style, but he could barely get his mind past the very beginning. Really, past a single comma in the middle of the very first phrase.

 _My dearest Roman_. With a comma after “dearest.”

_My dearest._

_Roman._

It changed the meaning. Completely upended it, actually. Every emotion Roman had been so successfully stifling ever since he set sail for London suddenly ran rampant through his heart as if he’d never left, setting his heartbeat pounding through his veins. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the single pen stroke that had consumed his every waking thought.

_He can’t have done this by accident. He’s… he’s too detail-obsessed. He couldn’t have missed it, could he? He had to mean it. He had to know what he was doing when he put that comma before my name…_

_Before he called me his dearest…_

Roman shook his head and placed a hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to calm down. It thundered up into his palm. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the letter to the side.

_He called me dearest._

He smiled. 

He couldn’t help it. He smiled like a schoolyard student who’d just been handed a wildflower by the boy he fancied, and this time he didn’t stifle it - he let the buoyant feeling lift him. Roman couldn’t do anything about his resurgent crush all the way across the pond, anyway. He might as well enjoy this little reprieve, mistake or no.

Feeling lighter than he had in months, Roman threw a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his husband hadn’t come home, then picked up his pen and slid out a clean sheet of paper.

_My dearest, Logan,_

_You must get through to Remus Jefferson. Sit down with him and compromise - I know how obstinate he can be, but a difficult opponent has never slowed you down before and I doubt one ever will. Don’t stop pushing him until you reach an agreement you can both fully agree on._

_As always, your favorite older brother Roman reminds you that there’s someone in your corner, even if I’m all the way across the sea…_

* * *

“Knock, knock!”

Patton poked his head through the office door, beaming and practically vibrating with excitement. The aroma of a savory dinner wafted in with him. Though the musical plinks of his husband teaching Emile to play the piano had quieted right before his footsteps sounded on the stairs, Logan could still hear their eldest son poking away at his scales from the parlor. “Feel like taking a break?” Patton asked.

Logan only looked up from his endless stacks of papers long enough to send his husband a fleeting smile. “I’ll be down,” he said, lifting a hand.

“Down _soon_ , I hope.” Patton put his hand on his hip. “‘Cause there’s a little surprise for you before supper and it really can’t wait, Lo.”

“I’ll be there in just a minute.”

“ _Logan_.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” he said, plunking his pen into his inkwell and raising both hands in surrender.

“Lo, your _son_ is nine years old today,” said Patton with a grin, ushering him out of the office and down the narrow steps at a pace that was really quite a bit faster than safety would allow. 

“And yet this surprise is for me?” he asked, gripping the banister to keep them both from toppling into a pile at the base of the stairs.

“You’ll just have to see!” sang Patton. 

He swung him into the parlor, where Emile shot to his feet and gave them a sheepish look. He fidgeted with something behind his back. “Evening, Papa,” the birthday boy smiled.

“ _Emile_ has something he’d like to _say_ , Logan,” encouraged Patton with a knowing look, taking a seat on the piano bench. “He’s been practicing all day while you were working. Go on, kiddo!”

Logan raised his brows at his son. Emile took a deep breath and pulled a piece of paper out from behind his back, glancing at both of his fathers before reading it out loud.

“My name’s Emile,” he mumbled behind the page, “I am a poet… I wrote this poem just to show it…”

Logan cracked a grin. Patton was beaming at them both. Emile puffed out his chest, growing a little more confident. “And I… just turned nine… you can write poems, but you can’t write mine!”

“That so?” Logan grinned.

Emile giggled and kept reading. “I practice French and play piano with my father… I’d like a brother, if it’s not too big a bother…”

Patton waggled his eyebrows at him from the bench. Logan pretended not to see, too enraptured by Emile’s poem.

“My Papa’s trying to start America’s bank… un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq!”

“Bravo,” he applauded. Emile took an exaggerated bow.

“Isn’t he talented?” Patton gushed. “He wrote that all by himself.”

“Did he?” Logan patted his son’s head with a smile. “Your poem is very good, Emile. Worthy of King’s College someday. You should be proud.”

“Do you like it, Papa?” asked Emile, holding it close.

“I do. Very much.”

“How about you go find your sister and read it to her?” suggested Patton, rising and leaning his head against Logan’s shoulder. “Then wash yourselves up for supper. We’ll be right along.”

“Ok, Daddy!” Emile practically hopped with excitement and pride and scurried out of the parlor. 

Logan and Patton watched their son go, arm in arm. “Our child is turning out to be quite the scholar, isn’t he?” said Logan.

“Takes after you.” 

He hummed, and Patton pressed a kiss to his mouth. “I wish you got to spend more time with the kids, Lo,” he said when he pulled away. “Emile especially idolizes you.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But I have so much work to get done. I’m providing a living and a future for you and the children, I can’t let that slip.”

Patton sighed, too. “Still. You should really take a break sometime, honey.”

“I am taking a break.”

“I mean a real break. A vacation.” He rubbed his biceps through his jacket. “You know Roman’s coming home, don’t you?”

“I am aware.”

“Well, we should all go stay with my father upstate,” he said, taking Logan’s hands. “Don’t you want to get away for awhile? Just for the summer?”

“The whole summer?” he blanched. He immediately ran the numbers - three months away from New York, three months away from Congress and the Virginians and their infernal, endless blocks in the way of his debt plan…

“You’ve earned a vacation, Lo, you’ve been working so hard.” His husband slid his arms around Logan’s waist, pulling him in close until they were chest to chest, his eyebrows lifted in suggestion. “You know there’s that lake, in the nearby park…”

“I do,” he said.

“And you and I could go there sometime while we’re up there… take a little rowboat down at midnight, get away from the rest of the family for a while…”

“It is lovely there at night.”

“Isn’t it? Besides, you heard Emile… he _does_ want a little brother.”

“You… are aware that our copulation has absolutely no bearing on whether or not we can adopt another child, right?”

“Oh, come on, Lo!” said Patton, gazing up at him with eyes like a small, begging puppy. “Run away with us!”

“I would love to go,” he admitted. He brushed his thumb along his husband’s cheek. “I will try my best to get away.”

* * *

The day Roman was due to arrive, Patton was up before everyone else - overseeing the day’s cooking, fluffing every pillow, whirling through the house with a feather duster. He spared Logan a peck on the cheek before the pot of boiling potatoes overflowed on the stove with a hiss.

“Are you sure you should be running around like this in your best jacket and cravat?” Logan asked from the doorway as he frantically tamped down the settling bubbles with the pot lid.

“Of course,” Patton replied. “Roman’s been in London for the past few years and his husband’s loaded, he’s got to be sporting the highest fashion! We have to look our best.”

“You already look your best, Patton.” 

He felt his husband kiss the crown of his head and laughed. “Aw, thanks, honey,” he beamed. 

“Daddy! Papa!” Suddenly, Emile’s call rang through the house. The nine-year-old was bouncing on the settee against the front windows. “Uncle Roman is here!”

“Already! Goodness, hurry up, Lo!” Patton exclaimed, straightening his lapels and rushing for the front door. He spied Logan smoothing down his own hair in the hallway mirror and chuckled to himself.

Roman Schuyler Church threw the front door open with a dramatic sweep and wide grin. “Your wait is over, citizens,” he sang.

“Roman!” Patton all but threw himself into his older brother’s arms, laughing.

Roman’s own laughter vibrated through his broad chest as he held him tight. “Oh, Patton, I’ve missed you so much!” he exclaimed, holding him at arm’s length. “You look just adorable, as usual! That pale blue is _so_ your color.”

“Few years out of style, probably. But look at you!” Patton insisted

“What, this old thing?” Roman gave a preening swirl. His silken empire gown flowed out from the bottom hem of the stiff, ruby spencer jacket that enclosed the top half of his torso. The long, fitted sleeves puffed at the shoulders and the jacket itself buttoned all the way up to his throat. “This is a mere common sight in the streets of London. Like it?”

“It’s beautiful!”

“Good, because I brought you one, too. Pale blue to go with your eyes.”

“ _Presents!_ ” Emile and his sister Rosa swarmed their uncle, jabbering away like a flock of crows. 

“Oh, gosh, Roman, you didn’t have to do that!” insisted Patton.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, fending off his niece and nephew. “You may be a Hamilton now, Patton-cake, but you were a Schuyler first, and a Schulyer must always keep on the forefront of the changing fashions!”

“Well, I suppose I ought to take your word for it, then,” he grinned.

Roman’s demeanor seemed to sober a little bit. He cleared his throat and said, “Speaking of Hamiltons, where is that fine catch of yours?”

“Afternoon, Roman.”

They turned to see Logan lingering in the hallway, arms crossed stiffly behind his back with an awkward, flat smile.

The corner of Roman’s mouth turned up at the sight of Patton’s husband. “Logan,” he said, almost gently. “It’s good to see your face again after so long.”

“Likewise.”

“He’s been holed up in his office so often recently, I almost feel the same whenever _I_ catch a glimpse of it,” Patton smirked.

Emile tugged on his uncle’s skirt. “Uncle Roman, did you bring us any more presents from London?”

“Why, of course,” he replied, patting his head of curls. “They’re in with the rest of my luggage. Why don’t you kids go help my poor valet unload it all? I’m sure he’ll need it.”

While the kids ran out the door, shrieking with joy, Roman put both hands on his hips. “I assume the proper preparations have been made for our trip to Father’s manor this summer?” he asked.

“All but one,” said Patton, sending Logan a knowing look. “Mr. Secretary here still hasn’t made up his mind on whether or not he’s coming at all.”

“What?” Roman exclaimed. “Logan, you’ve been spending so much time working that your own husband feels like he hasn’t seen your face for years, and you _didn’t_ immediately jump at the chance to take a vacation with your favorite Schuylers?”

“That’s what I said!” said Patton. “Even Vice President John Adams spends the summer with his family.”

“John _Adams_ doesn’t have a real _job_ , Pat. He can afford a frivolous reprieve from his work.”

Patton and Roman stared at him. “You’re… not joining us?” Roman asked quietly, a frown creasing his manicured brows.

Logan sighed. “I’m afraid the political situation here is too precarious. I cannot join you upstate.”

Patton’s heart sank, cold and heavy. He touched his husband’s sleeve. “Lo,” he said, searching his dark eyes. _We were so close. You said you wanted to go, to get away, to take a break for once in your career. To spend time with your children, uninhibited by the stress of work. To spend time with your brother-in-law, who you haven’t seen for years._

_To spend time with me…_

“I’m sorry. It’s just not in the cards.”

Roman’s expression was equally distressed. He made an offended scoff. “Logan Hamilton, I came all this way to see you. To see both of you.”

“I apologize,” he said. His expression was closing off again, turning back into that cold, focused work persona. _No, Logan, please don’t shut us out…_ “I have to get my debt plan through Congress. I will lose my job if I fail. It’s non negotiable.”

“Logan, please, just _take a break_ ,” insisted Patton.

“Patton’s right,” said Roman, “you can’t keep burning the candle at both ends forever. Something is bound to break, and it won’t be pretty when it does.”

“Aestheticism is not my priority. Providing for my family and for this country, is.” He sighed. “I can’t stop until I get my plan through. Only then can I, as you put it, take a break. It was lovely to see you again, Roman, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.” 

Patton watched his husband turn on his heel and vanish up the stairs. The closing of his office door slammed down on his heart, and he winced.

* * *

By the time Patton, Roman, and the children pulled away in the carriage, Logan still had not changed his mind. They were forced to wave at him as he stood alone on the doorstep until their street disappeared around a corner.

Patton sank back into his seat and closed his eyes. He felt Roman rub his thumb across his shoulder. “We’ll have fun, you and I,” he tried to say. “Won’t we?”

“Of course we will,” Patton said, gazing out the window. “I just… hope Logan doesn’t come to regret this decision to stay behind this summer. I’ve just got this bad feeling about it.”

Roman hugged him from the side. “He can handle himself, Pat,” he said. “You trust him, don’t you?”

“With my whole heart.”

“Then I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind...


	11. There's Nothing Like Summer In The City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: cheating, POV someone engaging in an extramarital affair
> 
> (This chapter only includes Say No To This so if you already know what's about to go down and don't feel like watching it happen, feel free to pick up the story with the next chapter if you so desire :) stay safe, dear readers)

It was already only a couple weeks after Patton and Roman’s departure, but Logan was already beginning to wish he’d taken them up on their offer to leave the city.

The summer was _hot_.

The humidity draped itself over every street corner, the air so heavy and thick it clung to his skin like a sheen of sweat. The sultry atmosphere permeated everywhere. There was no escape from the heat - even during the nights, it rose off the sun-baked cobblestones.

It would have been one thing to bear the close heat when he _wasn’t_ under catastrophic stress. The combination of the two left him completely out of sorts. He couldn’t focus on his work while trapped in his sweltering upstairs office, but there wasn’t a single place in the city that would serve him any better. 

So he was stuck, trying to encourage his exhausted, overworked mind to come up with a way to get his debt plan through Congress - preferably, one that didn’t involve making any deals with Remus.

And he was getting nowhere.

Frustrated, exhausted, desperate for relief from the heat, Logan found himself on the couch in his empty sitting room one night, staring at the ceiling with his cravat tugged loose around his neck. He’d been in his office for the past six consecutive hours and had made little to no headway at all.

The rest of the house was as dark as the streets outside. Void of any other company. No one to sit and relax with him, no fresh pair of eyes to go over his work and offer adjustments, no one to even reassure him that everything would be okay with a gentle touch.

_God, I miss Patton…_

A soft knock sounded at the front door.

Logan frowned. Sat up. It was nearly eleven at night, there shouldn’t have been any business coming to call so late. 

Still, though. Grateful for the momentary distraction from his heat-muddled mind, he opened the door.

A man stood on the front step.

Logan blinked as the first thought that went through his head was how good the light of the streetlamps looked against the exposed skin of the man’s shoulder. The neckline of his shirt was pulled even looser than Logan’s from the heat. 

Logan was embarrassed to admit that the man was exceedingly attractive.

“Are you Logan Hamilton?” the man asked.

“I… yes,” he replied.

He sighed, glancing down the street. “I’m deeply sorry to bother you so late, but… I’m sorry, I don’t know where else to go.”

“Are… you in some kind of trouble, sir?” asked Logan, trying to keep his voice cordial despite his exhaustion.

“Somewhat,” he replied, running a hand over the back of his neck. Logan found his attention snagging on the muscular definition of his forearm. “It’s… my wife, you see. She’s mistreated me almost as long as we’ve been married, but I always bore it because her job kept me afloat… but she’s up and gone, now.”

“Oh,” said Logan.

“I’m sorry to burden you with my troubles, but her job called her to Richmond almost two weeks ago and she’s all but cut me off. I don’t have any means to go on.”

The desperation was evident on the poor man’s handsome face. Maybe it was the humidity addling Logan’s emotions, but he felt a twinge of sympathy for him. “I’m sorry for your plight. If it would be of any help, I can offer you a small loan,” he said. “Thirty dollars, perhaps?”

Relief immediately overtook his features. “That would be more than kind of you. Thank you so much.”

“No trouble at all.” Tipping his head to the side, he said, “what did you say your name was, again?”

“Apologies, my name is James. James Reynolds.”

“James.” Logan retrieved the small sum and gave it to him. “Please take this. I wish I could do more to help.”

James returned the smile, and damn it if Logan’s heart didn’t give the tiniest flip. _What is wrong with me?_ “Trust me, I’m more than grateful,” he said.

“Would you like an escort back to your place of residence?”

The words were out of Logan’s mouth before he even realized the implications. Hurriedly, he clarified. His entire body felt overly warm. “A single individual walking amid the streets of New York would be at an increased risk of being accosted or assaulted by any unsavory type who lurks between alleys, and with this overbearing heat wave, that risk is only exacerbated… crime rates do tend to peak when the seasons are hot…”

James blinked at the information, but the corner of his mouth curved upwards in apparent relaxation. “I… suppose you’re right,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he replied, all too quickly. Pressing a smile, he closed his front door behind him and stepped out into the dark, steamy night. _It’s not as though I’d have the energy to do any more work tonight, anyway…_

The clinging atmosphere lingered between them all the way back to James’ house - which, to Logan’s surprise, was little over a block away from his own. “This one’s mine,” James shrugged, bashfully. A thought came to him, and he said, “would you like to come in for a moment? I feel like I owe you some sort of compensation.”

“Oh, no, think nothing of it, really,” said Logan.

“Are you sure? A cup of tea, at the very least?”

James had one foot in the door. The night heat was oppressive, but the humidity seemed to be somewhat relieved within. Which was probably a good thing, seeing as Logan could barely think straight as circumstances were. “Actually… that does sound… agreeable,” he admitted. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” 

Logan stepped inside the cramped and cluttered house. James’ arm brushed against his as he went to close the door behind him, and Logan’s heart gave a little jolt.

_Honestly, what is the matter with me tonight? Two weeks entrenched in humidity enough to rival hell, and my blood is already this hot?_

_Maybe I shouldn’t be here…_

But James had already moved into the kitchen, where boxes and various articles of junk lay strewn across the surface. He handed him his drink. His fingers brushed across Logan’s in the transference. “Sorry for the mess,” he said.

Logan swallowed. “It’s… quite alright.”

“If you want to sit down, I’m sure I’ve got another seat for you in the other room.”

_I don’t think I should be here._

The house was darkened, but Logan had miscalculated - it was no less warm inside than it was outside. Or maybe that was just his elevated heart rate. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that one of the most handsome men he’d ever laid eyes on was leading him deeper into his home. 

_I shouldn’t be here. This is hardly fair to Patton, being in such intimate quarters with another man while he’s away…_

_But,_ whispered another small voice of reason, _it’s not like you’re doing anything nefarious. Why should you care if you spend a couple more moments alone in the company of a handsome gentleman?_

The only uncluttered seats were in a room down the hall. _Bedroom_ , Logan realized. James lit a candle and guided them to two seats angled towards each other in the corner. Logan’s body seemed to move without command as he sat down. James snuck a lingering glance over the rim of his cup as they drank in expectant silence together.

_I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here._

_But James…_

_No. Go home. Now._

“Well,” Logan murmured, setting down his cup after he could bear the tension no longer. “Again, James… thank you for your hospitality, but I believe I… ought to be going.”

“Wait.”

James was on his feet, his hand in Logan’s, and suddenly the two of them were face to face. Close. James’ dark eyes lowered to where their hands joined. “Stay,” he murmured, lifting Logan’s palm to his cheek. Keeping those eyes on him as he trailed it so achingly slowly down the firm column of his neck. Guiding his fingertips across the heat of his smooth dark skin.

Logan’s heart shot into his throat. _GO HOME_ , his rational mind shouted. _RIGHT NOW. SAY NO TO THIS AND LEAVE._

“Please,” James whispered, guiding Logan’s hand even lower, caressing that spot where his neck curved into his shoulder. Thumb drawing over his collarbone. Lower. Dipping beneath the loose collar of his shirt.

Logan couldn’t breathe. _Lord, show me how to say no to this…_

“ _Stay_ ,” he breathed, and then his mouth sealed against Logan’s. Parting his lips for the hot push of his tongue. Logan’s back suddenly pressed against the wall, but his eyes had already drifted closed at the feeling of James’ skin under his palms, his kiss slanting on his mouth, and his leg pushing between his.

 _Say no,_ his rationale feebly gasped, but his hands were already under the man’s shirt. Palms dragging over the muscles of his abdomen, up his waist, over his chest. Their breaths wove between their lips as James crushed hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses to his mouth.

 _Say no to this_.

Then James laid Logan on the bedspread, stomach against stomach, kissing him as he ground his hips right where he so desperately needed. Reaching between them to unbutton the front of his pants. 

And the only thing that came out of Logan’s mouth from that point on were moans and gasps of pleasure.

* * *

_It was just one time_ , he tried to tell himself later.

Except that one time led to a second. Then a third. Again and again and again, as sultry nights rolled into days rolled into weeks, Logan found himself desperate to feel those hands, that body, on top of his.

Nobody had ever fucked Logan like _that_.

Not even Patton. It was an admission that always made Logan’s stomach turn with awful guilt any time his thoughts wandered to his husband while he was cooped up alone in his empty house. But it was the truth. Fucking James Reynolds was nothing like making love to Patton.

And every time the guilt threatened to overwhelm him, Logan ended up right back on James’ doorstep, chasing the sweet numb pleasure that would dash his anxiety from his mind, if only for a night. 

And it was fine, he tried to assure himself. No one knew what they were doing. Patton and his children were out of town. As far as Logan knew, James’ wife Maria was still away in Richmond. All he needed was James’ body to get him through his lonely summer, and that would be enough.

_Nobody needs to know._

It seemed like such a foolproof plan. Logan should have known better than to think it would be that easy. 

Because one day, a month into his endeavor, having already lost track of the number of times they’d met up, Logan received a letter bearing the Reynolds name that made his blood run cold.

Not from James.

From _Maria_.

_Dear sir,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and good fortunes - and being Secretary of the Treasury, I’m sure fortune comes as little concern to you. I am writing because my family has come down upon hard times, and I humbly beseech you, sir, for a donation of the monetary kind._

_If this demand appears disagreeable to you, let me clarify something: that was my husband you decided to f-_

“ _Fuck_ ,” Logan hissed. Feeling as though he was being submerged deeper and deeper beneath the surface of a frigid ocean, but unable to tear his eyes away from the words, he read on.

_Count yourself exceedingly thankful that I am the first person to hear about your little liaisons with James. Had this scandal broken to the public, I assure you that my demands for reparations would be far steeper, as all of our reputations would have been forever stained. Situations being as they are, I am merely asking for the first sum outlined at the conclusion of this letter to be transferred in cash, and the second listed sum wired to my account at the National Bank every quarter you continue to meet with my husband. You’ve cuckolded the wrong woman, Mr. Hamilton, and I intend to make you remember it._

_Of course, the decision to comply with my demands is still entirely yours. My husband is a common whore - you may continue seeing him at your leisure for all I care, as long as the money reaches me by the end of each quarter. I only urge you to think of the consequences if it does not. If you refuse to make the down payment, or decide to sleep with my husband without paying my quarterly fee, I have no inhibitions about alerting_ your husband _to your affair._

_Patton Schuyler Hamilton seems like such a sweet-tempered man. I don’t want to think about what this would do to him if he ever found out._

_Regards,_

_Mrs. Maria Reynolds_

* * *

Logan threw open the Reynolds’ front door and it slammed against the wall, startling James, who was in the kitchen. His hair was still finger-tousled from the previous night and red marks spotted his collarbones - he hadn’t even put a shirt on.

“What the hell is _this_ , James?” Logan shouted, holding up Maria’s letter.

“What?”

Logan threw down the letter on the cluttered table. “I thought you said Maria was in _Richmond_. How the fuck did she send me this, then?”

James’ eyes went wide with horror as he scanned the letter. “Oh, god…”

“ _Did you tell her?”_

“No!” he insisted. “I don’t know anything about this letter!”

“Denial isn’t going to do you any good if this _shit_ makes it out that door,” Logan retorted, throwing a finger towards the front entrance. His heart was beating too fast. His lungs felt like a vise, squeezing the air from his desperate breaths. “Don’t fuck with me, James. _How did your wife find out?_ _Who else knows?”_

“No one!” 

Logan froze, locking him with a glare. James squeezed his eyes shut. “No one else knows,” he mumbled. “Except Maria. Please, Logan… it was her idea from the beginning. All of it.”

His blood ran cold. For a long moment, he stared at him, fear and fury seething together within him. “So was your whole story a _setup?”_

“She wanted your money,” he said. “Logan, wait-”

“I never should have done this,” he muttered. Panicked claws seized his chest. He couldn’t breathe. It was all spiraling out of control. “How could I do this? _How could I do this?”_

“Logan, I’m sorry!” 

He tried to touch his arm, but Logan shoved him off. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “God, I never should have walked you home that night, how could I be so _stupid?”_

“Logan, _please_ , don’t go,” James insisted. His hands didn’t leave him. His eyes were imploring. Half-dressed, helpless, he looked _pathetic_ , clutching at his shirt. “I should have told you about Maria, but nobody else knows, I swear!”

“None of that fucking matters anymore, don’t you get it? I am _ruined_.”

“Not unless it gets out,” he assured him.

“ _She threatened to tell Patton -_ God, _Patton…_ ” Logan covered his mouth with his hand. He felt sick to his stomach.

_My god, Patton, how could I do this to us?_

James’ hands trailed soothingly, desperately over his chest, his dark eyes searching. “She won’t tell,” he said. “Just give her what she wants, Logan, and you can have me -”

“ _I_ _don’t want you_. I wish I’d never _met_ you.”

“Whatever she wants. She’ll keep it quiet. I promise.”

“I don’t want you, James.”

“Just pay her,” he murmured, “and you can stay. Please, Logan.” 

Then his mouth was on his again, drowning Logan’s weak retort in the taste of him. Logan tried to squirm, but James only cupped his face in his hands, slanting deeper into the kiss. 

And Logan found himself kissing him back.

There was nowhere he could go. The situation was a disaster, but James’ body was screaming _‘hell yes’_ where it pressed against him, and that was all Logan’s panicking mind could latch onto. The comfort he knew he would feel, held in his arms, splayed under him on the bed just down the hall. James would numb the vise gripping his chest. And he always numbed him so well.

In that moment, Logan craved that numbness over anything else. James’ body was on his and he didn’t say no.

* * *

He met Maria Reynolds in the central park. Weighted envelope in hand.

The woman wore a blood-red dress and her expression was cold. Calculating. Sizing up Logan from the moment he appeared around the bend.

Logan felt like the lowest being to ever exist, slinking towards her. The wife of the man he’d been having an affair with for over a month. The condemnation in her stare only exacerbated the sick guilt that was already drowning him from the inside out.

“So?” was all she said, crossing her arms.

Logan took a deep breath and extended the money-filled letter towards her. “Nobody needs to know,” he said. Pleading with his eyes.

Maria snatched up the money with a satisfied air. For a moment, Logan feared she would fail to keep her end of the bargain, but instead she nodded. “Don’t skip a single quarter,” she said before turning on her heel.

Leaving Logan to stand there alone, eyes closed, fists clenched at his sides in humiliation. _How did it come to this? How did everything go so wrong so fast…?_

_Patton…_

He gazed up at the sky, fighting the lump rapidly blocking his throat. _Please, God… just don’t ever let this get out._

_Don’t let him ever find out what I did._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a writer's perspective, the thing I find so fascinating about the Reynolds subplot of Hamilton is that it's a moment in the story when Hamilton fucks up. He just. Makes worst decision he could have made. And it has genuine, monumental consequences, like literally nothing good comes from his affair, plotwise. It only exacerbates all his other issues and we never get an "oh, but it was justified because X came of it" moment. There is no justification. He has no excuse. The main character makes an irredeemable, inexcusable error and has to suffer the catastrophic consequences of their own actions. That's just a situation we see so rarely in mainstream media, I just think it's neat.
> 
> Of course, from a viewer's perspective Hamilton DONE FUCKED UP and, by proxy, LOGAN NOW DONE FUCKED UP and we screech at the laptop screen


	12. What Do You Want, Burr?

“Ah, Mr. Secretary.”

Janus strode up to the man hovering at the edge of the bustling town square. Logan stood under an unlit streetlight as though waiting for someone, preoccupied by his thoughts. He snapped out of his reverie as he noted Janus’ arrival. “Mr. Burr,” he said with a stiff nod.

“Fancy seeing you out. I feel like I haven’t seen you all summer.”

“Yes. Well.” Logan adjusted his cravat and cleared his throat. “Work.”

“Always you and your work,” Janus said. “Oh, by the way, did you hear the news about ol’ General Mercer?”

“No.”

“You know Clairmont Street?”

“I do.”

“They’re planning on renaming it after him.” Janus folded his hands behind his back as the two of them watched the passersby. “All he had to do was die, and the Mercer legacy is immediately secure.”

Logan snorted through his nose. “Sure seems like a lot less work.”

“Maybe we oughta give it a try, huh?”

That earned him a cracked smile from the distracted secretary. Janus considered that a victory. “So,” he said, “I heard Patton and the kids are back in town. How’s the husband?”

“Devoted as ever,” Logan murmured. 

“And the Cabinet’s back in session for the fall, is it? I hear Congress is still fighting over where to put the capitol, among other things.” He raised an eyebrow. “Got any ideas for how you’re gonna get your debt plan through that mess?”

“Actually, I do,” he replied. “I think I’m going to finally take a page out of your book, Janus.”

“Really? Which one?”

“That ‘talk less, smile more’ philosophy you’ve been preaching since the day I met you.” Logan sighed, shaking his head at the man approaching them from across the street. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get my plan on the Congress floor, even if that means dining with the diametrically opposed devil.”

Janus eyed the approaching man - Madison. He recognized him from politics. “Him and Remus, you mean?” he asked.

“Unfortunately.”

“Those two are merciless.” He whistled through his teeth. 

“Well. You know the saying - hate the sin, love the sinner.” Logan drew himself up as Madison finally halted before him, both eyeing each other down.

“Hamilton,” said Madison.

“Madison,” he replied. Turning to Janus, he said, “Apologies, Janus, I’ve got to go.”

Janus blinked. “Right now?”

“I’m afraid so. Decisions are happening over dinner, you know.”

_I… don’t know._

Janus watched as the two foes walked off side by side, no doubt headed to meet Remus at dinner where they apparently planned on discussing the future of the country. Just the three of them in a room, making decisions that would radically alter the lives of every person in the country.

_That’s politics_ , Janus tried to reason to himself as he stood there under the lamppost. _That’s how politics have always been. So why do I feel so… left out of the loop this time around?_

The results of the dinner came in the next day. And Janus had been right about his assumptions.

Two Virginans and an immigrant had walked into a room and somehow emerged with a compromise. Logan’s debt plan was all but assured to pass Congress - just like that, in the blink of an eye, the man suddenly possessed unprecedented financial power in the form of a system he could shape however he wanted. In return, Remus and the Southerners in government had been promised a plot of land in the South for the nation’s capital.

And that was it. No one else knew how the parties came to their agreement, which pieces were sacrificed in their gargantuan game of chess. The people just assumed everything was done in the country’s best interest, but without anyone else in that room… well, they simply didn’t know what did and didn’t get discussed.

Like a fired-off pistol. Click, boom, and it happened. 

It kept Janus awake at night.

He lay awake, staring at the plaster of his ceiling, his mind unable to switch off and stop fixating on that night. The dinner party that he missed. He wasn’t even invited. Why couldn’t he get it off his mind?

_I was right there with him that night. Logan was right there, only hours away from making the biggest national compromise of the season._

_I could have been there, too._

He’d spent the entire day gathering up gossip from the well-connected people in town. According to some, Remus claimed that Logan had been spotted on Thomas’s doorstep the day before the meeting, distressed, and that he’d begged Remus to be a part of the discussions.

_Why? What did you need with the president? What did he need with you?_

The dinner didn’t solve all the nation’s problems, of course. There were still wrinkles to be ironed out. In New York, the general sentiment was uneasy, and Janus didn’t blame them. If he didn’t know Logan as well as he did, he’d probably see the moving of the nation’s capital to the Potomac as a victory for the Southerners.

But Janus knew what providing votes to Logan’s debt plan really meant. It meant all those ideas Logan had kept stored up in his brilliant mind could finally see the light and become reality. Janus had heard enough of them over mugs of revolutionary ale to know that if even half of them came to fruition… well, the North would be having the last laugh in the end.

_But still. Only three people came to this monumental decision._

Janus grabbed a pillow and smushed it over his face in frustration. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop thinking about that detail.

_No one else was in the room where that happened._

He barely slept all night. The following morning, when he spotted Logan in town, carrying himself a little higher than their last encounter a couple nights before, Janus couldn’t help but feel a swell of frustration. Resentment, almost.

_Logan Hamilton._

“Janus,” said Logan upon his approach. Janus just pressed a tight smile.

_What did they say to you to get you to sell New York City down the river?_

“That was some dinner you had the other night, wasn’t it?” he asked through his smile, surprised at the venom that laced his own words.

_Did Thomas know about the dinner? Was there presidential pressure to get the most out of the Virginians?_

Logan didn’t seem to notice. If he did notice, he didn’t care. Janus wasn’t sure which one felt more on-track for Logan Hamilton. “I suppose it was,” he said.

“Not everyone’s happy with your results, you know,” said Janus while his head swam with frustration. _How did you play that game, Logan? What did you promise them? What was dropped? What, what, what…?_

“They will be,” said Logan, shrugging with his hands in his pockets and squinting at the sun. “Give it a couple years. In the end, the capitol’s location isn’t the end of the world. When it matters, Janus, we’ll be free of debt _and_ we’ll still have the banks. We didn’t have to move an inch.”

“You got more than you gave, didn’t you,” said Janus.

“Everything I got out of it, I wanted. Don’t tell Remus,” he smirked. “That’s the game, you know. When you’ve got skin in it, you stay in it.”

He held the secretary’s steady gaze. “I’m starting to think I might want to start playing,” he murmured.

Logan flicked his eyebrows. “You’re welcome to give it a go, though if I’m being honest, Janus, I’m not sure if politics is really up your alley. In this game, opportunities for advancement will pass you clean by if you wait for them to come to you.”

_I know. I’m starting to see that, now._

“I guess you just have to ask yourself one thing.” Logan gave him a pat on the shoulder. “What do _you_ want, Janus?”

_I want to make those nation-shaping decisions._

Logan was gone. Janus stared at the sky, resolve hardening in his bones.

_I want to play your game._

_I’ve got to be in the room where it happens._

* * *

“Look!”

Patton looked up from patching a sock to see Emile barreling through the kitchen door, brandishing a newspaper above his head, eyes wide as saucers. “Dad, Grandpa’s in the paper! It’s the election results!”

“What?” Patton took hold of the paper, spreading it to the front page’s main article. Emile crowded over his shoulder, pressing his cheek right against his as they read the bold headline.

_WAR HERO EMILE SCHUYLER LOSES SENATE SEAT TO YOUNG UPSTART JANUS BURR_

Emile’s big blue eyes met his own, filled to the brim with worry. “Grandpa just lost his seat in the Senate,” he whispered.

“To Janus, of all people. I can’t believe it.” Noticing his son’s panicked expression, Patton offered him a smile and smoothed a hand over Emile’s curls. “Oh, it’s all going to be okay, Em. Sometimes, this is just how these things go. Please don’t worry, your grandpa will be just fine.”

“It’s not Grandpa I’m worried about, it’s Papa.” He bit his lip. “He’s in town right now. He’s bound to find out any minute.”

_Oh, I’m sure he already knows_ , Patton thought to himself with a glance out the window. He was sure there was going to be a confrontation at the Burr house before the day was out, but they could do nothing about that now. Besides, Logan and Janus had always resolved their inevitable disagreements in the end. 

Patton kissed his son’s cheek. “Your Papa will be just fine, too,” he assured him. “Let’s keep reading further down. You know he appreciates when his kiddos keep up to date with current events.”

Emile cracked a side smile. If there was one thing that Emile loved above everything else, it was making his papa proud. “Ok,” he said.

“That’s my boy.” He fluffed the paper and traced the fine lines of typesetting with his finger as they read. “ _Let’s meet our newest Senator from New York…_ ”

* * *

“Janus?”

The newly-elected senator appeared in the doorway with a satisfied slant already slathered over his features. Logan stood on the stoop with his arms tightly crossed.

“Logan,” said Janus. “To what could I _possibly_ owe the absolute _pleasure_ of your company?”

“Cut the shit, Janus. Since when are you a Democratic-Republican?”

“Have you perhaps considered that I was simply _always_ a Democratic-Republican and you just never deigned enough to ask about my political leaning? Or does admitting your selfish tendencies hurt your fragile pride too much?”

“ _Selfish tendencies_?” Logan snapped. “Coming from the man who pranced about preaching that everyone should talk less, smile more, and keep everyone else in the world in the dark about one’s political opinions? In the middle of a _revolution_?”

“Hey now, I thought you were on board with that philosophy now.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

_For once._ Janus sighed. “If you must know,” he said, “I aligned myself with a party for this election for my own political gain. That’s all.”

“Alright. Fine,” said Logan. As much as he hated to admit it, he could understand that reasoning. “What I just don’t understand is how you even managed to _win_.”

“Your flattery is overwhelming.”

“Janus, no one knows who you are or what you stand for. No one ever has,” he said. “How did you do it?”

“Well,” he said, “if you ever set foot outside New York City, you’d find that not everyone in the country thinks you’re really all that special at all.”

“Excuse me?”

“The people don’t need to know me, Logan. They don’t like you, and that’s enough for them.”

“Really.”

“Oh, pick your jaw off the floor,” said Janus with a wave of his hand. “Wall Street might think you’re great, but the institutions you build yourself will always have your back. Upstate, well… people just think you’re corrupt. The Schuyler seat happened to be up for grabs, so I took it.”

Logan scoffed, dropping his crossed arms. Janus’ victorious smirk didn’t leave his face. “You know,” Logan muttered, “I thought of you almost as a real friend up until this morning.”

“Oh, the _melodrama_. This is politics, Logan. It’s not personal.”

“Not personal? You changed parties to run against my father-in-law!”

“I changed parties to seize a political opportunity,” Janus snapped. “Now, if you’re just going to throw a fit, I’ll recommend getting off my front stoop, thank you very much. I swear,” he scoffed, “your pride is going to be the death of us all.”

The door slammed in his face, leaving Logan to fume in silence. 

He was still fuming about it hours later in the cabinet meeting downtown. Listening to Remus pontificate about sending military aid to the French didn’t help his mood, especially when the Secretary of State started digging into him personally. It was all the same jabs - _no loyalty, reeks of new money, terrible fashion sense, overly politically ambitious_ \- but they cut him deeper that day, especially the last one. He ground his jaw so hard he was surprised he didn’t crack his teeth.

“And hey,” said Remus, spreading his hands, “if you don’t know, now you know, Mr. President.”

“Thank you, Remus,” said Thomas from the head of the table. The president glanced Logan’s way. “Logan, you look like you have a response ready?”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Remus mumbled to the secretary beside him. _Self-righteous bastard._

Logan shoved himself to his feet. “ _You_ ,” he snapped, jabbing a finger at Remus, “must be out of your _goddamn mind_ if you think Thomas is going to bring this nation to the brink of war right now.”

“Here he goes,” the secretary crowed, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah. Here he goes. Have you seen the state of our finances, Remus? Have you?” He addressed the entire room. “ _Whose_ Treasury debt plan is currently pulling us out of a vertical financial nosedive, again? Oh, that’s right, _mine_. But everything the neighborhood francophile over there is suggesting would drag us right down again until we hit the earth and crash.”

“I’m sorry,” said Remus, “but _who_ provided this country with money and guns when we were on death’s door?”

“France,” Madison murmured.

“Oh, sure,” said Logan. “We signed a treaty alright - with a government that’s been overthrown and a king whose head is now in a basket. I’m pretty sure that if one of the signing parties _ceases to exist_ , that effectively annuls everything in that treaty. Unless, of course, you want to hold up King Louis’ _decapitated head_ and ask if he’d be cool with it. Not sure he’d say much, seeing as he’s pretty fucking _dead_.”

“Enough,” said Thomas, waving a hand with a sigh. Logan sat back down and Remus bit back his retort. The president folded his hands before him. “Remus… I’m sorry, but Logan is right.”

“ _What?_ ”

“We’re just too fragile to jump into another war. Especially when France lacks any and all leadership to unify them.”

“The _people_ are leading!”

“The people are _rioting_. There’s a very clear difference. I’m sorry, but in this matter, your ideals are blinding you to reality. Logan?”

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

“Draft a declaration of neutrality. These United States are not going to war. Cabinet dismissed.”

The other secretaries rose from their seats, straightening their papers and mumbling to themselves in discussion. Logan grabbed his quill to follow the president until he spotted Remus’ green velvet coat swishing around the table, his eyes flashing with anger. 

“Did you forget that Lafayette is languishing in _jail_ overseas?” the Secretary of State snarled.

Logan set his jaw. “Remy is a smart man. He’ll be fine without our intervention. If we try to fight in every revolution in the world, we’ll be fighting and amassing war debts for the rest of time.”

“Debt.” He scoffed. “All you ever do is accumulate debt and credit and power and weave snares of words to convince everyone that it’s in this country’s best interests. I bet you were quite a lawyer.”

“For your information, I was. My defendants got acquitted.”

“Yeah.” Remus shouldered past him. “Watch that big head of yours, Lo-lo. Someone oughta remind you that without Washington? That ego will get you _nowhere_ in real politics.”

“Logan?” called Thomas from the doorway.

“Daddy’s calling,” Remus smirked under his breath before sweeping out the door. 

* * *

Remus stewed in the entrance hall of the government building as other federal employees milled to and fro to their offices in their long coats and clacking shoes. The bustle got on his nerves. Logan had long since gone home to his family, but Remus lingered. Stewing.

_Goddamn him…_

“It must be nice.”

He whirled at the sudden voice behind him to find Senator Janus Burr leaning against the threshold. Remus sniffed. “What must be nice?”

“Having Washington on your side.” Janus pushed off the wall and approached, slinking like a snake with a tasty morsel of an idea. “Shame our president’s so biased against his own Secretary of State.”

Remus harrumphed and crossed his arms. “It’s not just him. The whole cabinet’s fractured into factions, thanks to Logan. Have you seen the smackdowns in the press?”

“I have.”

“Not one retraction, either. Not one public apology.”

“That sounds like Logan.” Janus examined his gloves. “He’ll die on every hill he builds. At least his fits of passion are going to be his own downfall.”

“I’m not even satisfied by that knowledge,” sighed Remus. “He’s not falling fast enough on his own, in my opinion. Somebody needs to stand up to that ever-running mouth - sooner, rather than later. Every second, his Wall Street and precious Treasury are robbing everyone in this country blind, down to our poorest farmers.” He scoffed. “And for what?”

“Centralizing American credit and making it competitive in the foreign markets,” said Janus.

“A load of horse shit, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Remus sneered at the senator. “Hey, are you on my side or not, Two-Face?”

“Oh, resorting to insults of my physical appearance, are we? _Terribly_ mature, you sure got me there,” he drawled. 

“Well, are you going to help me?”

“After that ‘two-face’ comment, I’m not sure I _ought_ to share my ideas for bringing Logan down a peg,” he said, casting him a knowing look. “Shame, too. It was such a good one.”

Remus couldn’t ignore the bait. “You have an idea?”

“Are you going to play nice?”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Janus’ smile snaked up one side of his face. “Mr. Jefferson, what is Logan the secretary of?”

“Uh, the Treasury?”

“Precisely.” He stepped in closer for a conspiratory murmur. “As the head of all financial dealings within this government, and as the founder of the National Bank, wouldn’t you say that Logan’s in the perfect position to… skim a little off the top if he’s ever in a pinch?”

Remus’ eyes lit up. “You think he’s _embezzling_?”

“I think it’s worth an investigation. Follow the money and see where it goes, I say. Would _you_ trust him to be up front and reveal his every secret dealing?”

He snorted. “Not even he’s that crazy.”

“Exactly. If Thomas isn’t going to listen to mere differences of opinions, then all you and I need to do is follow the scent of our opponent’s enterprise.” said Janus. He offered his hand. “What do you say? Feel like showing these Federalists who they’re up against?”

Remus clasped his hand, grinning wickedly. “This’ll be the last time they mess with the Southern motherfucking Democratic-Republicans.”

Janus matched his grin. “And if we’re right about this, Mr. Secretary, your bastard immigrant problems will be over for good. I assure you: this kid is _out_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How 'bout that new Asides, huh? I'm so soft I'm here for that canon wholesome gay shit
> 
> On a separate note, the Dark Sides are allying up against our protagonist... shit's getting real... stay tuned...


	13. A Moment Alone In The Shade

Logan knocked on the president’s door. “Mr. President?” he said, entering. “You asked to see me?”

Thomas looked up from his desk and gave him a weary smile. “Yes. Thank you for coming, I know you’re busy.”

“It’s no trouble at all. What do you need, sir?”

The president sighed, his eyes traveling slowly over the papers arranged on the desktop. Logan frowned and closed the door behind him. “Sir?”

“There are going to be some… changes coming to this administration soon,” said Thomas. “I want to give you a word of warning, moving forward.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you heard, but whatever it is, Remus started it.”

“Logan, Remus resigned his post as Secretary of State.”

Logan stared at him. The president held his gaze. _Remus… resigned?_ “You’re kidding,” he breathed. “When?”

“This morning.” Thomas rose from his chair. “I need a favor from you.”

“Anything,” he insisted. “Whatever you need. I assure you, Remus will pay for this behavior, quitting right on the eve of another presidential election -”

“Logan.”

“I’ll get the press on our side, sir, I’ll slander him under a pseudonym -”

“ _Logan_.” Thomas touched his hands to Logan’s shoulders, stilling him. His expression was deadly serious. “Remus resigned from his position to run for president.”

Logan snorted. “Then he’s even more of a fool than we thought. He doesn’t stand a chance against you, sir.”

The president dropped his gaze at that. Folded his hands behind his back. Set his chin. “He won’t be running against me,” he eventually admitted. “I’m not pursuing a third term in office. I’m… stepping down.”

Logan stared at him, unblinking. Uncomprehending.

_Thomas is… stepping down?_

The president smiled, patting his arm again. “Relax,” he said. “Sit down, have a drink with me while we talk.”

“I…” Logan struggled for words. “No, sir… _why?”_

“Sit,” he said. He poured him a small glass from the decanter on the edge of the table. Placing it in Logan’s bewildered hands, he leaned back against his desk. “I’m sure this must come as a bit of a shock to you,” he said. 

“That is a grave understatement, sir,” said Logan.

He chuckled. “The thing is, Logan… I’m tired. I’ve been in the public eye for so long, with hardly a rest in between my promotions. I’m tired of the partisan fighting of politics. And I think, at this point in my life, I would rather spend what years I have left spreading my hard-won wisdom to my people from the comfort of my home. Talk about neutrality. Perhaps take a page out of your book,” he smiled. “Pick up a pen, start writing.”

“But you could continue to serve. There’s no stipulation limiting your service to two terms.”

“I know.”

A breath of a laugh escaped him at the sheer absurdity of it all. “Sir. As far as the people are concerned, you… you _have_ to lead us. Especially now, with Britain and France on the verge of war.”

But Thomas just shook his head, smiling sadly. “And that’s exactly why I need to step down,” he said. “We need to teach the country to move on, to welcome in a constant cycle of new leadership.”

“They’ll say you’re weak, sir.”

“This isn’t about just me. This is about setting the foundation for a truly democratic country, one that will outlive me when I’m gone.” He shook his head. “We can’t get our people used to having the same person in charge forever. We’ll be no better than the monarchies of Europe.”

Logan gazed down at his drink. He… admitted, he could see where Thomas was coming from. In fact, it made perfect logical sense. That was the whole point of electing the head of the state - to keep tyranny in check and maintain a continual cycle of power.

Still. That didn’t make it any easier to swallow when it was _Thomas_ talking about stepping down.

“I want to sit under my own vine and fig tree, as the scripture says,” said the president with a wistful note. “Cherish a life of just living in this nation we’ve made.”

“I understand,” said Logan quietly.

Thomas smiled at him. “But, before I step down… I want you to draft an address. Something I can say to the nation to help them understand my actions. Something to let the people hear from me one last time. Will you help me?”

He straightened his spine. Thomas may have become his friend over his years in office, but to Logan, the president still deserved every respect due to the General of the Continental Army from his subordinate officers.

“Of course I will, sir.”

* * *

The election of 1796 was upon them. Thomas Washington was not on the ballot. And after the votes were counted and the new president-elect was named, Thomas stood before his citizens one last time and read the words that Logan helped him compose.

His farewell address.

_Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will view them with indulgence, and that after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself will soon be to the mansions of rest._

_I anticipate with pleasing expectation that retreat in which I promised myself to realize the sweet enjoyment of partaking in the midst of my fellow citizens: the benign influence of good laws under a free government, the ever-favorite object of my heart; and the happy reward, as I trust, of our mutual cares, labors, and dangers._

And finally, Thomas Washington returned home to Mount Vernon to enjoy his moment alone in the shade.

* * *

Unfortunately for Logan, there would be no such respite from the gauntlet of political life.

He took a deep breath outside the doors of the cabinet chamber, steeling himself for the meeting he was about to plunge into. The election after Thomas’s resignation had raised John Adams to the presidency. Remus Jefferson, as the runner up, now held the title of Vice President.

And for the first time, Thomas wouldn’t be in the cabinet to mediate the arguments.

 _Welcome, folks, to the Adams Administration_ , Logan thought bitterly. He swallowed his pride and pushed the doors open.

“ _Look_ who finally _deigned_ to show up!” 

Logan leveled the new vice president with a seething glare. Remus sat beside the head of the table, his feet up on the tabletop, grinning away. “Didn’t think you were gonna come, since Daddy isn’t here to yank on that leash of yours anymore.”

“Contrary to your flippant opinions, Remus, I actually _do_ have a meaningful job to do here,” he snipped, taking his seat. “You, on the other hand, can’t say the same.”

Remus scoffed. “I’ve got the front row seat to watch Adams put you in your place. Do you know what he called you in his private taunts?”

“My fellow Federalist? I’m sure you’ve spouted worse.”

The vice president leaned into Logan’s ear, so uncomfortably close he felt his hot breath against his neck. “ _Creole bastard_ ,” he hissed.

Logan’s spine locked. His fingernails bit into his palms. He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but at that moment President Adams entered the room.

The president eyed Logan for the briefest moment, his pace faltering for just a second, as if he hadn’t expected to see his Secretary of the Treasury in attendance. As if he’d been hoping not to. Rage flushed through him as he caught the tiniest curl of the president’s lip.

_He fucking did call me that, didn’t he._

Adams settled into the president’s chair, _the bumbling disgrace_. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m so very pleased to see that you’ve all made it for our first day of -”

“Pleased to see us _all?”_ Logan piped up, raising his brows. “I’m charmed, Mr. President. Here I was just now, thinking your _Creole bastard_ was the only one unwelcome.”

The president went pasty. “I… ex… excuse me?”

“Real mature, resorting to outright _insulting_ the man who’s _giving your country competitive credit_.”

“That… that was a…” Adams pointed a wobbling finger at Logan as his face made a vibrant transition from paste gray to beet purple. “You have no right to bring up private business in a work environment!”

“Do I? Because I’ve got this inkling that your private business is gonna have a pretty profound impact on our work relationship in this cabinet.”

Adams shot to his feet. “ _Secretary Hamilton_ -”

Logan slammed his hands down on the table. “ _SIT DOWN, JOHN, YOU FAT MOTHERF-”_

* * *

He was back on his couch, steaming with indignation while Patton rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back. “I told you not to pick a fight on your first day,” he murmured.

“He fucking fired me.”

“You slandered him in front of every last one of his coworkers, honey.”

Logan sighed heavily through his nose. “This is all Remus’s fault.”

“Remus is very good at pushing your buttons, I’ll give him that, but you’re the one that blows it out of proportion every time. You have got to learn to compromise with people that don’t agree with you, Lo.”

“I know,” he muttered, and Patton kissed his temple. “I miss Thomas, Pat.”

“I know,” said Patton. “But you’ll get through this rough spot in no time. You’ve got a solid reputation as a good writer and a good man. This little hiccup won’t hurt you for long.”

_A good man._

Logan’s stomach turned as James Reynolds’ night-softened face flashed through his mind, but he quickly shook his head to clear it. That was years ago. No one could trace his romantic attachment to the man now.

“You’re right,” Logan said, sighing. “I can handle this.”

_From now on, it’s up to me to resolve my own problems. I’m on my own._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A moment alone in the shade, and then that moment is gone just as quickly. 
> 
> Quick chapter today 'cause the next one, well... you know. Don't say I didn't warn ya.


	14. Rumors Only Grow

Two knocks sounded on Logan’s office door. “Come in,” he said distantly. It opened, and two pairs of footsteps entered the room, stopping before his desk.

Logan looked up.

Remus. And Janus, standing side by side, looking for all the world like two men flanking an outmatched opponent. He set down his quill and narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Vice President,” he said. “Senator Burr. What is this?”

The office door shut.

Remus grinned. “Oh, you’ve been a _very_ naughty boy, Logan.”

_Reynolds._

Ice suddenly speared through him as he glanced between the two men. Janus had that one-sided smirk curling up his face. “Really,” he said, “I never would have guessed you had the capacity for this much… deceit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We have the check stubs from multiple bank accounts, all tracing back to you.” Janus held up a sheaf of paper and waved it. “There’s almost a thousand dollars here, all paid to a Mrs. Maria Reynolds in 1791.”

_Oh, God. Oh, God, they traced it, they know, James…_

_Patton…_

Logan schooled his features carefully into indifference. “Are you done?” he clipped.

“Well.” Janus flipped the pages over his thumb, letting them flutter back down into his other hand. Tauntingly slowly. “The vice president and I couldn’t help but notice that, as the founder of the National Bank and this country’s _ex_ -Treasury Secretary you are… uniquely situated, by virtue of your position for… shall we say, exploitation?”

“Of course, _virtue_ isn’t the word I’d apply to this particular situation,” drawled Remus, waggling his eyebrows at Logan. 

Logan felt sick to his stomach, watching the two men leer over him with this knowledge they’d dredged up, knowledge that would destroy his husband, his family, just downstairs. He clenched his fists, struggling to keep his breathing even and hold their gaze even when _they know, they know about James -_

“The evidence, I’m afraid, suggests you engaged in grand embezzlement.”

His gaze snapped up. Illness vanished on the spot. He parted his lips in a frown.

“Ah.” Janus held up a finger, still grinning away. “Still our turn.”

“An immigrant, engaging in speculation with _our government’s_ funds,” Remus crowed.

“I can almost see the headlines now,” preened Janus.

“I sure your daughter and sons will _love_ hearing that their Daddy has paid his rent on this house with embezzled money. I’m sure they’re old enough to understand the concept of _theft_ , aren’t they, Logan?”

“Don’t talk about my children,” he growled.

“Testy, isn’t he?”

“I’ll say. I hope you put some of that money aside for your family, because your career in the public eye is _done_. So… just do us all a favor and admit it.”

Logan pushed himself to his feet, straightening his cuffs. It gave him a brief thrill of satisfaction to see both men make the tiniest motions backwards, as if bracing for a physical retaliation… or just one of Logan’s trademark verbal ones. “Is that all you have on me?” he asked. “Accusations of financial speculation with connections to one Mrs. Maria Reynolds?”

“If you have more financial connections, please, do, share them,” said Janus.

_They don’t know._

_They think this was all for money? They think I would defy the very institution I helped establish, against their opposition?_ “Pardon me while I laugh,” he scoffed. 

“Excuse me?”

“I thought you were smarter than this, gentlemen,” he said. “Really. I’m disappointed. That sheaf of papers doesn’t mean what you think it means, and I don’t have to tell you anything at all.”

Janus curled his lip, studying the documents. He made a sniff of indifference. “Fine. Very well,” he said. “ _Don’t_ make an attempt to save your skin. I’m sure the public wouldn’t have believed it, anyway. Very few things make for juicier gossip than fraud scandals.”

“Besides a nice raunchy sex scandal,” Remus cackled. “But unless you can top Janus’ digging with one of those, all those papers are going straight to the newspaper tomorrow morning.”

“I told you, they’re not evidence of speculation.”

“The public won’t be able to tell once we put our spin on them in the papers,” said Janus. “The evidence is already incriminating enough as is.”

“But! You apparently have nothing to say for yourself, so I suppose we’ll just be on our way,” said Remus, taking the senator by the shoulder. “Send our regards to hubby tomorrow morning. Ta-ta, Lo-lo.”

“Wait.”

They paused before they reached the door, raising identical eyebrows at Logan.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the words he was about to say. There was no going back from this, but he couldn’t let them accuse him, _unfounded_ , of embezzlement of his own institution. He couldn’t. 

“If,” he said, heart hammering, “I could prove that I never broke the law… would you promise not to publish those papers under the accusation of speculation?”

The vice president and senator exchanged a long, intrigued look. Right before Logan felt like he was going to combust from the sick anticipation, Janus said, “Alright, Logan. Take your best shot.”

“Is that a yes? You’ll give me your word?”

“Whatever,” said Remus. “Yes.”

Logan exhaled. Then, with one carefully steady hand, he reached into the bottom of his desk drawer and slid out a single sheet of paper - Maria Reynolds’ only letter of correspondence during his affair.

_Affair. God, I’m admitting to an extramarital affair to my two worst enemies…_

He stuck the paper towards them. 

Janus snatched it up, dual-toned eyes skimming the words. Logan pinpointed the moment he realized what the letter was about. “I’m sorry,” he demanded, “You fucked her _husband?_ ”

“He _what!?_ ” Remus grabbed the letter and his eyes went wide. “Jesus Fuckin’ _Christ_ , it _is_ a sex scandal!”

“Would you keep your voices _down_?” Logan snapped.

“Oh, does Patton _not_ know you let yourself get dicked down by a married man and then paid off his wife to keep him on top of you?” The vice president’s eyes were glittering with glee. “Poor Mr. Schuyler Hamilton is gonna be so _scandalized!_ I’d pay to see him faint over this.”

“Remus, that’s enough,” said Janus, taking the letter back and folding it neatly. “Logan… do you have… anything to say about _this_?”

 _He’s uncomfortable. Good._ Logan crossed his arms. “James Reynolds solicited me in a moment of weakness,” he explained, his tone clinical and detached. “When he had me backed into a corner, his wife swooped in to exploit the affair. I may have made those payments to keep it quiet, but as you can see, my connection to the woman has absolutely nothing to do with speculation and I’m honestly disgusted that you would accuse me of such a crime.”

“Oh, but infidelity is so much better?” asked Remus.

“No, it isn’t,” he gritted out, “and I am ashamed of my own behavior, but that was in the past and all parties have moved past it.” Logan threw down a checkbook onto the desk, gesturing to the ledgers. “I have kept a meticulous record of every check, withdrawal, and donation in my financial history. Check it against your list. I assure you there isn’t a sum out of place. I never spent a cent that wasn’t mine.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Janus, eyeing the intimidating bookcase against one wall packed with nothing but financial ledgers.

Logan set his chin. “Then you have no choice but to take my word for it,” he said. “Yes, I have reason for shame, but I have not committed treason and have done nothing to provoke legal action. Satisfied, Senator?”

Janus spent a long moment glancing between Maria’s letter, to the wall of ledgers, to Logan’s stoic face, then back to the incriminating letter. At length, he sighed. “My God,” he muttered.

“So?”

Remus shrugged. “Well, Logan, as much as I’d love to see your name get dragged through the press in this country’s first big political sex scandal, you haven’t done anything too obnoxious recently that would justify me doing so. Besides, I like being one of the only people who knows this tantalizing little tidbit about you and your saucy history. You’re off the hook.”

“Truly, your generosity is inspiring, Remus,” he droned. He cut his glance to the senator. “Janus? Can I be assured that you won’t use this against me the next time we face off politically?”

Janus set the letter down on the desk. The barest flutter of a smirk returned to his lips, and suddenly Logan didn’t feel nearly as confident. “See, Logan,” he said, “that’s the thing about rumors. Those like the one you just chose to reveal to us… they only ever seem to _grow_.”

And without another word, he swept out of the office, Remus hot on his heels. Leaving Logan standing behind his desk, suddenly feeling very exposed.

_Rumors only grow._

_That wasn’t a reassurance._

He shut his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. _They’re just bluffing. Being their usual obnoxious selves. They’re just irked that their speculation scheme didn’t go through._

_But then, wouldn’t that make them more likely to publish this information in retaliation…?_

Logan braced both hands on his desk, surrounded by his endless stacks of paper, his eyes open but staring at nothing through his glasses. 

_I was fucked before, but now… I’m really and truly in trouble._

_In the eye of a hurricane._

The metaphor came to him out of the blue, and he almost laughed. It was fitting. Almost too fitting. There he stood, poised in limbo, standing at the mercy of his two worst political enemies who would stop at nothing to take him down and erase his efforts from the face of the planet. A decisive scandal drop, written in their hand, would be plenty to do just that. No one would take the Hamilton name seriously again. 

All around him, indecision and uncertainty whirled around him outside the four walls of his office. And he stood in the silent eye.

_I wrote myself out of the hurricane last time._

The real one. The tempest that destroyed his town in the Caribbean, the focus of his very first refrain, the one that got him out of the subtropical backwater and into the limelight of New York City.

_I helped write this country to revolution in Thomas’s company. I wrote us out of Britain’s oppression._

_I wrote Patton - beautiful, adoring, caring Patton Schuyler - love letter after love letter until he fell for me._

_I wrote about the Constitution and defended it with every stroke of my pen. I built financial systems as big as a nation with nothing but my words._

_Every time. I picked up a pen. I wrote my own deliverance._

_And I’ll write my way out this time, too._

Logan pulled up his chair and cleared his writing space of papers and checkbooks and condemning letters. He pulled out a new sheet of paper and dipped his pen into his inkwell. 

_This is the only way to protect my legacy._

He allowed himself one moment of hesitation. One breath, where he closed his eyes and sent a prayer to whatever powers that were.

_Overwhelm them with honesty. Every correspondence. Every payment._

_Every night in James Reynolds’ arms._

_God, help and forgive me for what I’m about to do._

The pen scratched and swept the paper, leaving curls of ink in its wake, crowning the top of the blank page.

 _The Reynolds Pamphlet_.

* * *

The Reynolds Pamphlet dropped like a British cannon boom.

Every newspaper in the city - probably in the country - picked up the story. It was slashed across every headline. It was all anyone on street corners could talk about. Only the dead could miss the scandal.

Logan was already starting to wish he was dead.

He’d been out of the house killing time hour by hour until Roman’s ship was due to arrive at port. For once, he tried to assume a low profile in the streets. Most of the time, it worked. People’s noses were buried too deeply in their pamphlets to pay him any attention.

Sometimes, though, it didn’t. The looks he got from those strangers on the street ranged from disgust, to horror, to humiliation at even meeting his gaze. They gave him a wide berth on the sidewalk. As if infidelity was a contagious disease.

But worst of all was the snippets of conversation he caught. All of them, about one thing.

_The Reynolds Pamphlet._

_Have you seen this?_

_Logan Hamilton had a torrid affair…_

_“The charge against me is a connection with one Maria Reynolds, for purposes of improper speculation…”_

_Never going to be president now…_

_“My real crime is an amorous connection with her husband…”_

_He’s never going to be president now…_

_That’s one less thing to worry about._

_Damn…_

_Have you seen this?_

Every word was a slap in his face. He didn’t know which gutted him more, coming out of strangers’ mouths - their words, or his own. Words that he’d willingly put into the world. That his enemies, his allies, his family, his husband were all going to read and hear and bear, every last one… 

_There was no other way to protect my legacy, other than to admit everything myself._

_There’s no going back, now. No going back home…_

Logan was all but collapsing with relief as he watched the sails of Roman’s ship creep agonizingly slowly across the bay to dock at port. He was sweating under the heavy woolen jacket he’d used to conceal his identity. The gangplank hit the dock with a sound like a cannon shot.

All around him, those whispers circled like contagion in the air. _Never gonna be president now. Have you read this? Have you ever seen somebody ruin their own life?_

Roman was the last off the ship. He appeared at the top of the gangplank in the most beautiful red ensemble Logan had ever seen. The man always looked immaculate in both the latest men’s and women’s fashion, but he looked particularly composed that day, striding slowly and purposefully in his tailored waistcoat with his chin set like a regent.

Logan met him before he even reached the dock.

“Roman,” he exhaled, breaking his first smile since the Pamphlet dropped. 

Roman, however, didn’t smile. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said.

Logan didn’t care. Finally, _finally_ there was someone in New York City who would understand his reasoning. If anyone could see where he was coming from, it was whip-smart, educated, beautiful Roman. “Thank God,” said Logan, taking his hand to press it to his lips in relief. “Roman, someone who understands what I’m struggling here to do -”

The hand was ripped out of his own.

Logan looked up, met the man’s eyes for the first time, and his insides twisted with lead at the sight.

_Cold._

A glacier-freezing glare. His green eyes were utterly devoid of warmth. There was no love, no compassion in those shards of ice knifing into him. No understanding.

In its place was utter _disgust_.

“ _I’m not here for you_.” Roman bit off every syllable of his hissed words.

Logan couldn’t move under the weight of that glare. He was a bug, pinned and squirming against the wall. “I… I don’t understand,” he said.

“Oh. You don’t understand.” Roman’s voice stayed perfectly level, perfectly controlled, smooth as glass and twice as cutting. He did not step down off the raised gangplank as he sneered down at him. “Then let me make myself clear, Logan Hamilton. I am not here to dry your eyes over your latest catastrophic decision. Not. This. Time.”

Roman brought himself one step closer, keeping his gaze pinned on Logan so he couldn’t so much as move. “If you really _thought_ ,” he hissed, “that I would sail across the sea only to abandon my little _brother_ for his utter _disgrace_ of a husband, just because we exchanged a couple flirty pen strokes over the years… then you don’t even know me at all.”

“Please,” said Logan, “let me explain -”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ you’ve got a _lovely_ little memorized excuse for writing _this_.” Roman held up a copy of the Pamphlet, and Logan winced at the sight of his letters glaring back at him. “Have you even been home since this dropped, Logan? Have you even met your husband’s gaze? Or have you been skulking around the city, waiting until you had an ally at your defense before you ganged up on him two to one to beg for forgiveness?”

Logan’s response died in his throat. _That’s exactly what I’ve been doing._

“That’s what I thought.” Roman threw the Pamphlet down on the ground with a _smack_. “Let me tell you something about me,” he snarled. “I love my brother more than anything in this life, and I am standing at _his_ side in the wake of this, not yours. I will put Patton’s happiness over my own every. Single. Time.”

Logan watched, helpless, as his brother-in-law shoved past him, throwing one last scathing glare over his shoulder. “Whatever we had in those letters? Put it aside,” he snapped, and a humorless laugh escaped him. “ _God,_ I hope you’re satisfied now.”

Hissed words of passersby curled in his wake like eddies of water after a ship, drowning Logan in their disdain. _A torrid affair. One less thing to worry about. Have you read this?_

And worst of all. The words that made Logan truly feel like the worthless disgrace he’d become.

_His poor husband._

* * *

Night.

The office was dark. Only the cold moon threw icy light across the furniture in blocks. The low fire in the furnace was the only color in the room. 

It wasn’t bright enough to warm the space. Patton couldn’t even feel it through the skirt pooling over his frigid bare feet, not even as he stood before it and felt the shadows light up his face from below. For all he knew, his heart had frozen over in his chest from the cold.

An ember popped, casting a single spark up into the dark room and drawing Patton’s attention back to the letters in his hands. So many letters. He spread them with his thumb. His gaze slid over the endless ramblings of a lovestruck soldier to his lovestruck beau. Palaces and cathedrals of words, words that flooded that beau’s senses.

Left him defenseless.

He couldn’t read them now. Backlit by the fire, the pages just looked dark and hazy. Phantasmagoric as they shifted. 

_The Reynolds Pamphlet._

One publication. Exposing a whole secret cache of letters that Patton had never seen before they were seen by the world. Senseless letters. _Paranoid_. He didn’t even recognize the writer anymore.

That beau of the winter’s ball was dead. That lovestruck soldier was just as good as. 

One publication, and that soldier died upon his own sword - and forfeited every right he’d ever claimed on Patton’s heart.

Patton’s freezing hand was steady, cold as a statue, as he singled out the first letter of the stack in his fist. Fire flickered in the corners of his vision, phantom reflections in his glasses of the embers in the hearth he could not feel. He watched his hand lower the letter to the flames.

The fire brightened as it caught the corner. It crawled rapidly across the inked words, leaping higher. The edges of the paper blackened like ashen, clawing fingers inside the fire, curling and closing like the ones over Patton’s heart.

A beaded tear slid down his statue face, but that was just one more thing he couldn’t feel.

He watched the letter burn.


	15. Only Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: bullying, onscreen major character death, temporary hurt/no comfort

Emile Hamilton dashed out of the main hall of his college, caught up in the riotous swell of his friends around him. All of them, brandishing their diplomas to the sun.

“Aww, yeah!” whooped Elliott, hooking Emile around the shoulders with their arm. “Look out world - meet the latest graduates of King’s College!”

“Free at last!” Emile laughed.

“Tell me about it,” mock-groaned Kai. “I wasn’t even sure we were going to even make it to the end.”

Elliott scoffed at them. “Speak for yourself. There’s one guy among us whose academic success wasn’t even a question, and it’s our boy Emile here,” they grinned, shaking Emile by the shoulders.

Emile laughed. “Aw, come on. You guys were bound to make it, too.”

“Well, sure, but look at who your father is! The scholars always did say you had his brains and virtuosity.”

“And,” grinned Kai, “if the ladies are to be believed, your brain’s not where the resemblance stops, either.”

“Cut it out,” he grinned. “Yeah, my Papa always prided my academics, but I’m nineteen and now I just graduated _college_. I’ve gotta be my own man. You know, like my father, but bolder.”

“Bolder than Logan Hamilton? Now that would be something to see.” Elliott slapped him on the back.

“Hey,” said Kai, swatting Emile’s arm, “Em, weren’t you gonna go find that scumbag today?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I should probably get on that, huh?”

“Give him hell for us!” cheered Elliott with a playful air punch. “A good ol’ Hamilton smackdown in front of his buddies!”

Emile waved, smiling. “I will. I’ll catch up with you guys later. Dinner later? Kai’s treat?”

“Hey, whoa! _My_ treat?”

“Sounds good. See ya, Em!”

“See ya!” He waved as his two best friends set off through the plaza arm in arm, brandishing their fresh diplomas in the faces of every pretty young passerby they met. Emile just cracked a grin before turning off down a different road.

_Papa always said that someday, I’d blow them all away… time for me to start doing just that._

_Starting with George._

Emile’s smile faded from his lips the further he walked into town, thinking about George Eacker. The young man - a student his age from a different college - had given a speech a week earlier at a Fourth of July convention, berating his papa’s character in front of the crowds to garner support for the Democratic-Republican party.

Emile had heard people disparage his ambitious father before, but hearing it from the mouth of a peer had struck him differently. His father had always beaten back his own opponents. This time, it felt like Emile’s turn to shoulder and stand up for the family legacy.

Not to mention, George had cited the Reynolds Pamphlet in the middle of his tirade.

Even now, Emile ground his teeth at the insensitivity of it, even as he stalked downtown New York in search of the man. _Anything else would have been fine,_ he thought to himself. _Anything except that. He doesn’t get to throw around Papa’s greatest gamble like it was a lapse in his judgement, a mindless blunder. He doesn’t get to exploit my family’s situation like that._

He hadn’t been there. George Eacker hadn’t been in the Hamilton house in the wake of the Pamphlet.

Emile had.

Emile was the one who approached his sweet-tempered dad in the parlor, pamphlet in trembling hand. He’d watched Patton’s face light up with his trademark radiant smile upon seeing him. And it was _Emile_ who handed Patton the Pamphlet for the very first time.

_That was the last time I ever saw Dad smile like that. That morning, right before he read that damn Pamphlet. He hasn’t smiled nearly as brightly ever since._

He’d watched that beaming smile drop. Watched his eyes widen. Watched his hand come up to cover his trembling mouth, unable to tear his blurring eyes away from the paper.

“Where’s your father?” his dad whispered after far, far too long.

“Errands,” Emile had replied.

Patton had closed his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath, because it was almost noon and Emile’s papa had left the house for errands at dawn.

George Eacker hadn’t had to watch Logan slink into the house late that night. Didn’t watch Patton freeze in his tracks at the opposite end of the hall. Didn’t watch his fathers stare at each other with an entire house’s length between them. Didn’t watch his dad’s expression shift from desperate hope, to dismay, to horror, to _anguish,_ finally hardening into frigid unfeeling the longer his papa just looked at him with such awful _guilt_ in his eyes. 

He didn’t have to ask if it was all true. For once, Logan Hamilton said enough without saying any words at all.

And that was that.

The letters burned that night.

Silent breakfasts rolled into silent luncheons rolled into silent dinners. Not even Emile’s siblings dared speak at the table. Patton didn’t meet his husband’s eyes again. Logan never bothered asking him to try. 

Emile had come to his father’s office, taking in the spare sheet and pillow strewn across the couch in the corner and the shadows under his papa’s eyes. Asked him why he did it. His papa had only rubbed Emile’s curls and drawn him into a tight hug.

“For you,” he’d said, voice rumbling through his chest as Emile clung to him. “It was the only way to protect you from my mistakes. I had to admit them myself. Please… please forgive me. I’m so, so sorry...”

Emile had come to understand his father’s reasoning with time, but whether that made the silence easier or harder to bear, he wasn’t sure. On one hand, he understood how utterly disastrous things could have been if Senator Burr and Vice President Jefferson had published the Reynolds scandal with their own vicious spin on it.

On the other hand, Patton did not understand. Would not. Nothing Emile said brought back that easy smile or even gotten him to meet his other father’s gaze. And as much as he understood his papa’s motive, Emile could understand his dad’s just as much. Logan had hurt them. Rumors or not, he’d hurt them all, plain and simple. And he’d utterly betrayed Patton’s trust worst of all.

George Eacker hadn’t been caught in the middle of an endless standoff between his two parents, seeing both sides but unable to mend the chasm splitting them apart.

He didn’t get to drag the Hamilton name any further than it had been already.

 _But where even are you, George?_

Emile frowned in the middle of Times Square as people and horse-drawn carriages ambled past him in the streets. He realized he really didn’t have a lead on the young man. He was walking blind.

Spotting a pair of pretty female students he recognized from the New York commons, he adjusted his lapels and smoothed his curls. Those girls went to George’s college, he knew he recognized them.

_Alright, plan B._

“Afternoon, ladies,” he beamed, folding his hands behind his back. Both young women raised their eyebrows in intrigue. Not for the first time, Emile thanked his good looks. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a pickle. Would either of you possibly be able to help me?”

“Sure, what can we do for you?” asked the nearest with a blushing smile. She was cute. Her hair made a curly pouf over her forehead.

Emile shrugged, glancing at them in the sheepish way that always seemed to make the girls giggle. “My name’s Emile Hamilton. I’m looking for someone and can’t seem to find him anywhere,” he said. “Do you happen to know a Mr. George Eacker?”

“George?” Pouf and her friend looked to one another immediately. “Oh, sure, we know him.”

“Bit of an oaf, if you ask me,” said the nearer girl, snapping open her lace fan.

“What do you need with him?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid. I’ve got a bone to pick with him,” said Emile. “He insulted my family name, and I just can’t let that slide. I’m making my father proud.”

Pouf blinked, then considered for a moment. “Hamilton… your father isn’t _Logan_ Hamilton, is he?”

“He is,” said Emile, puffing his chest.

“You’re gonna try to get George Eacker to apologize for shit-talking his party’s Public Enemy Number One?” Lace Fan scoffed lightly. “Good luck. Not that he doesn’t deserve a good knocking-down, it’s just he’s as stubborn as a mule.”

“Well, I’m gonna do my best to get him to budge. Do you know where I might be able to find him?”

“I saw him just off Broadway, actually, a couple of blocks that way.” said Pouf. “I think he was headed for the theatre.”

 _Broadway, huh?_ Emile flicked his eyebrows. “I’ll go pay his box a visit, then,” he said.

“Be careful.” Lace Fan fluttered her namesake, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “Don’t let him rough you up too badly. It would be a shame if that buffoon marked up a face as handsome as yours.”

Emile’s heart gave an excited little flip, and he flashed a knockout smile. “I’m sure I can handle him. Thank you for your help, ladies.”

“Good luck,” breathed Pouf.

“Thanks.” He paused, then stepped in a little closer. Both girls immediately leaned in. “Hey, uh, if you’d be interested,” he murmured, “my friend Kai is hosting a dinner tonight. If you wanted, you’d be more than welcome to come along as my plus one… and two.”

“Dinner, huh?” They shared a raised-brow look.

“And, you know… you could stay a little later, too. Maybe even play some strip poker in the drawing room. How does that sound?”

“Sounds _great,_ ” Pouf blushed.

“Yeah,” exclaimed her friend, furiously fluttering her fan.

“Alright,” Emile grinned. “I’ll see you ladies there, then.”

He exchanged addresses with them, then set off for Broadway with an extra lightness in his step. He felt a little embarrassed a couple blocks later that he hadn’t thought to ask for their names, but he figured he’d learn them eventually if they showed up to Kai’s dinner.

_I guess my resemblance to Papa really doesn’t stop at my brains after all, huh…_

Smiling to himself, he made his way to the theatre. 

Inside, the lights were down and the stage was illuminated as actors professed their lines between the red velvet curtains. Emile pressed his lips together, leaning this way and that to peer through the audience for George Eacker’s self-righteous sprawl. At last, he spotted him up in a box, one arm dangling over the banister. Emile slunk in.

“George,” he hissed at the box. “George!”

People around him shushed him. The young man in question frowned down at him, gripping the banister. “Hey, man, chill,” he hissed back, “I’m trying to watch the show.”

“You should have watched your mouth before you talked about my father,” Emile shot back.

“Your who?”

“Fourth of July, George. You bad-mouthed Logan Hamilton in front of hundreds of people.”

“Oh, you.” Recognition settled over his disinterested face. “Listen, Hamilton. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true back there. Your old man’s a two-bit scoundrel.” He looked him up and down with a sneer. “So are you, apparently. Must be something in the blood - oh, _wait_.”

Sudden rage surged through Emile at the cruel smile that curled up George’s face, but he balled his fists at his sides to rein in his temper. His nails stabbed into his palm. “What are you saying, George?” he asked quietly, his tone dangerous.

“I’m saying, you’re not even his real son, technically. I don’t see why you’re all worked up about this when you don’t even share his blood.”

Every dirty swear he’d ever heard was straining at the tip of Emile’s tongue. His vision was practically red. No one had _ever_ said anything like that to him before. Not to his face. He couldn’t even process the outrage racing through his body. “It’s like that, then?” was all that came out.

“Yeah, it’s like that,” George snorted. “I don’t fuck around. If I said something, I meant it, and I’m not gonna apologize just because it hurt your feelings. I’m not one of your little schoolboy friends.”

“ _Then I’ll see you on the dueling ground!”_

George blinked. Emile, on the other hand, snarled through his teeth. “That is, unless you want to step outside and go now?”

“You really wanna duel me over this?”

“Yeah, I wanna duel over this!”

“Alright, fine. Whatever,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Field across the Hudson. Weehawken. Now that you know where to find me, piss off. I’ve got a show I’m trying to finish here.”

“Don’t be late,” Emile snapped, whirling on his heel and stalking out of the theatre.

As soon as the sun hit his face, his anger cooled, and his heart gave a violent lurch. He groaned, fisting both hands in his hair.

_What did I just do?_

* * *

“Papa!”

His father glanced up from the book in his hands, adjusting his glasses as Emile rushed into his office. Emile always liked his papa’s office. The tomes in their towering bookshelves, row upon row of books from financial ledgers to Voltaire. It always smelled of candle wax, yellow paper, and ink stains. 

But Emile wasn’t there to admire the room. He tactfully ignored the carefully-made bedspread tucked into the couch in the corner and pleaded to his father. “Papa, I’m in trouble.”

Immediately, Logan’s head snapped up. “What happened?”

“There’s this guy, George Eacker, he was running his mouth at the Fourth of July and he ran it again at the theatre downtown - Papa, if you’d only heard the shit - _stuff_ \- he said about you, he was saying such horrible things and he made me so mad -”

“Slow down,” he said, coming around the desk to take hold of his son’s shoulders. 

Emile took a deep breath. “He said I wasn’t your real son just because you and Dad adopted me, and he dragged up the Pamphlet last week in front of so many people… I didn’t mean to challenge him, it just kind of slipped out…”

“You challenged him?”

“To a duel,” winced Emile. “Pistols. We’re meeting up once his play is over.”

His papa hummed to himself. “I see.”

“Please don’t be mad.” He rubbed his arms. “I came to you for advice, I’ve never been in a duel before, but I know you told me all about the -”

“Ten duel commandments,” nodded Logan. “Well… did you or your friends attempt to negotiate a peace before you challenged him?”

_Your old man’s a two-bit scoundrel, and so are you apparently. Must be something in the blood…_

“I tried,” he said. “He refused to apologize. I had to let the peace talks cease.”

“Alright. Where is this happening?”

“Across the river in Jersey. Weehawken.”

“Everything is legal in New Jersey,” his father muttered. He shook his head, clasping his hands. “Alright. This is how your duel will proceed. You will meet this Mr. Eacker on the field - do not yield an inch to him, understand? Stand your ground. When the time comes, fire your weapon into the air, and the entire affair will immediately be put to rest.”

Emile cracked a smile. He really appreciated his papa’s clinical approach to situations like this one. Somehow, he had a knack for untangling the messy anxiety and anger and confusion mixed up in an issue with ease, neatly delineating everything into black and white. 

His _dad_ , on the other hand, would hear the word “duel” and fly into a panicked flurry like any good mother hen. Emile liked being fussed over too, but for matters of duels… sometimes he just really, really loved his papa.

A thought suddenly crossed his mind, and Emile’s smile fell.

Logan frowned. “Is something still unclear?”

“It’s just…” he fidgeted. “I mean, what if he decides to shoot for real?”

“He won’t,” said his papa, touching his cheek. “If he’s truly a man of honor, he’ll follow suit. To take someone’s life… you can’t shake something like that, Emile.” His own eyes saddened behind his glasses. “Believe me, you don’t want this young man’s blood on your conscience. Your father can’t take another heartbreak.”

“Papa,” Emile murmured, but his father stopped him.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Logan nodded. “Good.”

There was a beat of silence in the room, and then Emile said, “We’re not telling Dad about this, are we?” 

“No,” he said, his gaze flicking towards the door in a nervous fashion. He quickly covered it up with a flat smile. “No, we are most certainly _not_ alerting your father to the events that will transpire in Weehawken today. It’s… for the best he doesn’t ever learn, actually. We’ll keep this just between you and me, alright?”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

Logan smiled, and Emile’s heart warmed the way it always did when his father praised him. “Come straight home when it’s over. No loitering in town with your friends,” he said.

_So much for that dinner._

A click. Emile’s attention was drawn back to his papa, unlocking his small gun cabinet to reveal his personal pistols. He blinked as he offered them to him hilt-first. “Here,” he said. “I want you to take my guns.”

“Are you sure?” he breathed, marveling at the fine craftsmanship.

“I am. Just be smart.” His father lifted his downcast chin with one knuckle. Smiling again. “Make me proud, son.”

_His real son._

_No matter what George says, I’m Logan Hamilton’s real son, and I won’t let anyone forget it._

“I will,” grinned Emile. “You know I always will.”

* * *

Emile was already across the river when George and his pack of cronies showed up. Elliott, who Emile had recruited as his second, glared him down.

Emile, on the other hand, smiled and waved despite the nerves singing through his body. “Mr Eacker!” he called. “How was the rest of your show?”

“Do us all a favor and skip the pleasantries, Hamilton,” George scowled. “Grab your pistols. Let’s get this over with.”

“Asshole,” muttered Elliott as the two duelists prepared their guns. He jabbed Emile with his elbow. “Make sure to aim for his mouth so you can shut him up once and for all.”

“I’m not firing towards him, Ell. I’m throwing my shot.”

“What? Why?”

Emile sighed. “It’s the honorable thing to do,” he said. “Don’t worry. Besides, you know the statistics - most disputes die and no one shoots, anyway.”

“You ready, Hamilton?” Across the field, George stood tall with his arms crossed.

Emile straightened and took a slow, deep breath. He sent his second a grin. “Here we go,” he said.

Elliott nodded. “Teach him not to mess with the Hamiltons, Em.”

Grass crunched underfoot, and suddenly Emile was face to face with his opponent. George was quite a bit taller than him, but he squared his stance, his father’s age-old words echoing in his ears. In tandem with his thundering heartbeat.

_Stand your ground. Look him in the eye, aim no higher. Summon all the courage you need._

_Then, count._

“The duel will commence after we count to ten,” called Elliott from the sidelines. “Gentlemen, take your paces.”

They turned their backs to one another. Heart pounding so loud he swore George could hear it, Emile willed himself to focus. 

_My name’s Emile. I am a poet…_

He smiled to himself. Even in times of duress, his mind always seemed to spin lyrics and poetry.

Ten paces. 

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_I’m a poet… and I’m a little nervous, but I can’t show it…_

_Five._

_I’m sorry, I’m a Hamilton with pride… you talk about my father, I cannot let it slide…_

_Six._

Emile began to lift his arm, training his gun to the sky. He turned to see George, already facing him again with a cold look in his eyes and his _pistol aimed straight at his HEART -_

_Seven-_

BANG.

* * *

Streetlamps and buildings hurtled by. Logan raced down the street, heartbeat pounding in his ears, his panicking fear drowning out the pain in his side as he ran. Faster, faster, _please, God, no, no, no…_

He wrenched open the doors of the hospital, frantically scouring the faces of the startled attendants. “ _Where is my son?”_ he exclaimed, his voice cracking.

“Mr. Hamilton?” A surgeon appeared at his elbow. 

Logan’s head whipped around. “My son,” he panicked. “Emile, Emile Hamilton -”

“Come in,” the surgeon said as he ushered him inside. “They brought him in half an hour ago, he’s lost a lot of blood -”

“ _Is he alive?”_

“Yes, but you have to understand, the bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm -”

“Can I see him, _please?”_

The surgeon stopped him before the door. There was hesitation in his eyes. “Mr. Hamilton,” he said, “I’m doing everything in my power, I assure you… but the wound was already infected when he arrived.”

_Infected._

Logan knew what that meant. His body felt weak, like at any moment it would fail to keep him standing upright. “But he’s alive?” he said weakly.

The surgeon nodded, but the look on his face revealed the rest of his answer.

_For now._

Logan entered the wide room in a daze. Emile lay on a cot to his left, his blue eyes widening as he spotted him. “Papa,” his son whispered.

“Emile.” Logan’s knees hit the wooden floor, kneeling beside his son, brushing his curls out of his eyes. His coat front was stained with blood and almost the entire front of his shirt was red. More blood crusted down the corner of his mouth. 

Despite it all, Emile cracked a weak smile that broke Logan’s heart. “I… I did exactly as you said, Papa,” he said. “The duel. I didn’t… didn’t yield an inch…”

“I know,” hushed Logan, “I know. Elliott told me everything. You did everything just right.”

“Even… before we got to ten, I was aiming for the sky… aiming for the sky…”

“Shh,” he insisted.

Emile swallowed. “Where’s… where’s Elliott now?”

Logan shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I came here as soon as he told me what happened.”

“I…”

“Don’t speak, Em. Don’t try to move, save your strength…” Logan swallowed. “Please, just save your strength and stay alive…”

A piercing shout suddenly rang out from down the hall. His head snapped up as a new lance of fear suddenly speared through his heart.

_Patton._

“Is he breathing, is he going to survive?” his husband’s voice demanded. A second later, his head of golden-brown waves thrust into the room, eyes scanning frantically. Elliott’s anxious face poked in behind him. Logan shot to his feet, but he didn’t have any words.

Upon spotting Logan by Emile’s side, Patton threw himself to their son’s bedside, shoving Logan out of his way. 

The realization hit Logan like a second blow, right on the heels of the first. _That was the first time Patton had touched him since the Reynolds Pamphlet dropped._

“Emile, Emile, baby,” Patton exclaimed, running his hands all over his son, fingertips coming away red where they brushed the bloodstains. “Oh, god, Em…”

“Dad,” he whispered.

“Baby, what happened?” Patton’s voice was already wracked with grief. “Who did this to you?”

“George Eacker,” said Logan. “A peer goaded him into a duel.”

Patton whirled on him, and Logan’s insides immediately seized with horror at the outrage on his husband’s tear-streaked face. 

“Logan, did you _know?”_ he whispered.

Logan could only stare, frozen. He couldn’t have picked a worse thing to say to Patton. There was absolutely nothing he could say in response. It was that awful night of the Reynolds Pamphlet all over again - irredeemably guilty, but unable to find the words to explain himself.

Patton’s eyes widened as Logan stood silent. His lips parted in horror. Disgust. _Betrayal_. Overtaking his face while more tears spilled down his cheeks. He made a strangled sound halfway between a gasp and a sob.

“Dad…”

Patton whipped back around, cupping Emile’s face. “I’m here,” he murmured, “Daddy’s here, daddy’s right here…”

“ _Dad_ ,” said Emile, clutching at his jacket front and swallowing. “It’s not his fault… please, don’t… take this out on Papa.”

“Shh.” He stroked back his hair. “Don’t. Don’t speak.”

“Don’t blame Papa, please…” A tear crawled down the side of Emile’s face into his hairline. “I want… to go back to when we were okay. When you were okay.”

“My son…” Patton kissed his forehead. Logan knelt back down beside the cot, keeping a healthy distance between him and his husband. His heart felt as though it was being rent in two.

“You’d… you’d play piano back then.” Emile’s voice was already weaker, each breath more labored than the last.

Patton nodded, clutching Emile’s hand. “I taught you piano,” he whispered. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. “You changed the melody every time.”

Emile tried to smile, too. “I would always change… the lines…”

He shushed him gently. “I know, baby,” he said. “I know…”

“Will…” Their son swallowed again. “Will you sing?” he asked. Eyes widening with sudden fear, face paling.

“Yes,” said Patton, holding him close and earning a relieved look from Emile. He squeezed his hand through the tears and began the first simple tune that came to mind - Logan recognized it. The thirds scale exercise they’d used to teach him numbers in French. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf…”

“-six, sept, huit, neuf…” Emile sang in response. His voice barely more than a breath.

“Good,” Patton nodded as another tear ran down his face. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…”

They began again. Singing softly even though they were crying. Logan felt wetness on his own face - he was crying, too. Silently at his bedside while they sang.

Until, like the last ghosting breath of the sunset, Emile’s voice finally faded away.

“Sept, huit, neuf.” Patton tried to finish the scale, but his counterpart was no longer there. He touched Emile’s pale face. He did not move. 

“Sept, huit, neuf,” he whispered. As though continuing would bring back his voice long enough to finish the song. “Sept, huit…”

But it was not to be. Emile, their son, their first child, was dead.

Logan watched the horrible realization settle over Patton’s trembling features, clutching the body of their departed son.

And in its wake, Patton’s scream of agony ripped their world apart.

* * *

The Hamiltons moved uptown in the wake of the unimaginable.

Their new home was only a few doors down from Roman. He took it upon himself to check in on his brother every day, spending more time in Patton’s house than his own. He managed the grieving children, prepared meals for the family, looked after the house, offered his shoulder to cry on.

But most days, the house was just too quiet.

Patton didn’t speak to anyone. He was detached from the world, often staring off into space, lost deep in his own thoughts. Sometimes, he didn’t leave his big, empty bed all day, just lay there gazing up at the ceiling. Roman made sure he ate and drank, but his appetite was severely lacking.

And he would break down at a moment’s notice. The simplest touch to a piece of furniture could set him bursting into tears. Patton couldn’t even look at the piano, shrouded under a sheet in the back of the house. It was like everywhere he went, he could hear Emile’s voice around the corner or see the ghost of a memory in the woodwork.

Roman held his brother tight anytime his grief overwhelmed him. Let the wrenching sobs wrack his body, let the tears stain his shirt… he didn’t care. There were moments in which words simply didn’t reach, suffering that was just too terrible to name. In those moments when it felt easier to just swim down and drown in their pain, Roman was there to drown with him.

Often, the tear stains belonged to him, too.

As for Logan…

Roman stuck beside Patton almost every hour of the day, but he didn’t see his brother-in-law nearly as often. Mostly, Logan had taken to hours of isolation in the back garden or taking long, long walks through the quiet streets of uptown New York. He went to the store alone, took the children to church every Sunday while Patton grieved at home.

And after all the awful, irredeemable things that Logan had done over the years… Roman’s own grief seemed to part the clouds of his long-standing anger. He felt pity for him. He had enough decency to understand that Logan had never intended for any of this to happen - Logan wasn’t a cruel man. Everything he’d ever done had always been in the best interest of his family, even when those things hadn’t been what his family truly needed at the time. The love, the adoration behind them, the desire to provide, had never faltered.

Emile’s death had gutted them all. Logan may not have broken down in Roman’s arms like Patton, but he was still no exception to that fact.

And Roman found that he was beginning to forgive.

Patton, however, was still struggling. When Roman brought him his small breakfast one morning, Patton was already up, leaning against the headboard and gazing at the opposite wall.

“Hey, Patton-cake,” said Roman, setting the tray down. “Sleep okay?”

He glanced at his hands, clutched in his lap. “I almost went to him,” he whispered. “Logan. Last night. I almost knocked on his office door.”

Roman sat on the edge of the bed. Patton didn’t meet his eyes. His voice wavered as he continued, “I saw… I saw Em in my dream. And when I woke up and remembered…” he shook his head. “I just… I needed to feel him hold me. I needed to feel his arms around me. I made it all the way down the hall before I stopped myself… I don’t know why I felt like that, I haven’t wanted to even touch him for so long, not after… not after…”

“You miss him,” said Roman.

Patton squeezed his eyes shut. A tear slid down his cheek. “I miss who he used to be,” he whispered. “Who _we_ used to be. I want… I want the old Logan back. I want _him_ to be here for me now.”

Roman gathered his brother in his arms, slowly stroking a hand over his hair. Patton clutched his waist and buried his face in his shoulder. 

“Believe me,” he murmured, “I miss him, too. He hurt you, Pat, and you have every right to shut him out. But if you really do find yourself missing his company, if there are moments in which it overrides your pain… well, he’s still here on this earth. You still have him here. The old Logan isn’t gone forever, he’s just… changed. You both are.”

“I don’t know if I even know how to talk to him anymore,” Patton whispered. “Even… even if I wanted to.”

“Well,” he murmured, “that might be something you two just need to relearn, and it’s not going to happen overnight. But in the end, he’s still the same man you fell in love with all those years ago, and I think that’s the reason your heart is pulling you back towards him now.” Roman rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles. “You both just have some relearning to do.”

That seemed to calm him for the time being. Roman fed him some breakfast and helped out around the house. Patton was still lethargic, but he didn’t spend any more full days in bed from then on.

If the two husbands interacted in the wake of their conversation, Roman didn’t know. He suspected they hadn’t. Logan seemed to avoid the fleeting gaze of his husband and Patton never spoke up.

Almost a week later, Roman was searching the kitchen for a rolling pin so that he could make a tart with some of the younger children. Patton was out in the garden. Dusting his hands on his skirt, Roman stepped outside to ask him if he knew which cupboard he kept it in.

But the question immediately stilled on his tongue, because Logan was in the garden, too.

His brother-in-law hadn’t heard him open the back door. Though his back was to Roman, Logan’s focus was entirely on Patton, who was gazing, unmoving, at the spread of blooms before him. For a long moment, they stood there by each other’s side. A space still lingering between them. 

Roman felt like he was intruding, but neither of them seemed to know he was there and he couldn’t turn away.

At length, Logan’s voice drifted through the garden. “I know I don’t deserve you,” he murmured. “I’ve done so many things to hurt you, Patton, and I don’t expect a shred of your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.” 

Logan looked up, searching Patton’s face, but Patton didn’t make any indication that he’d heard him. The agony and grief on Logan’s face, turned just enough so that Roman could see it, broke his heart. 

“If I could spare Emile’s life,” he went on, “trade his life for mine… I would. In a heartbeat, I would. He would be standing here right now instead of me, and you… you would smile. And that would be enough.” 

He tried to smile himself, but it didn’t last. “Patton, I mourn that my actions took away your smile every day,” he said. “I know there’s no replacing what you lost, what we both lost. But I’m not afraid of whatever our futures may hold, together or separate or otherwise.”

Patton’s head dipped. Logan closed his eyes and averted his gaze. “I won’t tell you how you should conduct your life. If you want me gone, say the word and I promise you, it shall be done. But… if you would allow me to stay by your side, if only for a little longer, then that would be enough for me.”

Roman couldn’t imagine what must have been going through their minds, side by side in the garden. He couldn’t imagine what Patton might have been thinking. For a moment, there was silence between them.

And then, ever so slowly, Patton inched out his fingertips and slipped Logan’s hand into his own.

Roman touched a hand to his chest. Logan looked up, shocked, but even though Patton still didn’t meet his gaze, his demeanor conveyed enough. The exhale that the two of them had been holding for so long. 

The comfort of just standing there, hand in hand. 

_Forgiveness._

They both watched the garden for a long time. Eventually, Logan asked gently, “Do you like our new home? What do you think of the neighborhood?”

And, so quietly, Patton finally replied. 

“It’s quiet uptown.”

Logan looked out over the blooms. “Yes,” he murmured. “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgiveness.
> 
> Can you imagine?


	16. If You Had To Choose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi
> 
> sorry bout that last chapter *taps fingertips together*
> 
> have some relatively softer ship content plus a lil political drama to make it ~spicy~...

Patton took to accompanying Logan on his long walks through the park. He hardly ever spoke, but that didn’t matter to Logan at all. Just walking by his husband’s side was enough. It was too late to right the wrongs of the past, but he’d been given a chance to make things better in the future, and he wasn’t about to throw that away.

Slowly, over the course of many walks, conversation poked its head between them. Every once and awhile, Patton would comment on the summer blooms, the turning autumn leaves. Logan would share a snippet of local news. They both found things to talk about again just by taking in their surroundings.

Eventually, though, as the seasons turned cooler, those surroundings began to stir. More people began to gather at street corners in town. A fresh air of change was afoot, and Logan and Patton felt it more and more each day as they strolled through the city. 

And heard it, in the conversations of passers-by.

_“I don’t like Adams…”_

_“Well, he’s bound to lose, anyway…"_

_“But Remus Jefferson? That elitist is in love with France…”_

_“That new upstart, though…”_

They’d been isolated in their grief for so long, but politics waited for no one. The election of 1800 was upon them.

He and Patton were in town one day when they came across a small rally in the commons - a group of New Yorkers, applauding for a man standing on a makeshift stage, calling out his name.

Patton stopped, frowning in bewilderment. “Is that…”

“Janus Burr,” said Logan.

Sure enough, the man who had once denounced revolutionary poetry in a tavern just down the block was the head of the rally. Logan barely would have recognized him if not for his telltale gloves. He was smiling. Waving. His entire posture was confident.

Standing in front of an audience, making his thoughts heard. 

“Remember, folks - talk less and smile more!” Janus called in a triumphant finale. His rally cheered all the louder. “It’s 1800! Ladies, tell your husbands: vote for Burr!”

“I had no idea Janus was running for president,” said Patton. 

“Neither did I,” murmured Logan. 

“Does he even have a platform, or is he just running on the assumption that everyone hates Remus and Adams?”

He offered his husband a small smirk. “Knowing Janus, probably the latter.”

The corner of Patton’s mouth quirked up, and Logan’s heart warmed.

Janus descended from his little stage, shaking hands and charming the people that flocked to him, that winning smile never leaving his face. At once, his dual-colored eyes caught sight of Logan and Patton through the crowd. Offering a pat on the shoulder to the man he’d been talking to, he headed straight for them.

“Logan!” he grinned, clasping his hand in a firm handshake. “And Patton. So glad you could make it, you’ve been missing in action for so long.”

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Family business.”

“Right. I’m sorry. My condolences.”

“Thank you,” said Patton.

“Anyway,” Logan interjected smoothly, “I see you’ve been busy, Janus. You seem to have created quite the stir.”

“You think so, huh?” Placing his hands on his hips, Janus grinned back at his dispersing crowd. “I didn’t expect that many people to even show up, if I’m going to be honest. I’ve been going door to door.”

Logan shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day Janus Burr openly campaigned for his own political career.”

“Oh, believe me, neither did I. Honestly, the process is… draining,” he laughed. Logan caught a flicker of manic exhaustion in his eyes - he knew the look well from his own mirror. “Anyway,” he said, turning to walk away, “lovely to see you, _as_ always, but I’ve got a public reading at the tavern downtown and my agent insists I be punctual.”

“Janus.”

The man blinked. Logan stuck his hands in his pockets, considering him. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do?” he asked.

Janus merely shook his head. “If there is, I’ve yet to encounter it. I’m _chasing_ what I want now, no longer waiting around,” he said. A smile snaked up one side of his face. “Learned that one from you, actually.”

He disappeared down the bustling midday New York street, leaving both Logan and Patton to stare in his wake.

When they got home, their mailbox was stuffed almost to overflowing with letters. Both of them ignored them - it had become a common nuisance at the Hamilton house as the election day rolled ever closer. Young and old Federalists from all over the country were desperately writing to Logan, all of their endless letters about the exact same thing.

_Dear Mr. Hamilton, your fellow Federalists would like to know how you’ll be voting…_

“Not so quiet uptown anymore, huh?” said Patton, inclining his chin at the mailbox.

Logan winced. “Sorry, Pat…”

“No, Logan, it’s nothing to apologize for,” he replied. He actually gave him a half smile. “You always said you wanted this family to be known nationwide. Well… those letters prove you succeeded,” he said. “An entire political party is looking to _you_ for guidance. That’s the kind of national influence that can swing whole elections.”

“That’s not what this family needs right now,” he said.

Patton just shook his head. “But it might be what the _country_ needs,” he replied. “And if… if Emile were here, he’d want his papa to do his job. You know he would.”

Logan just stared at his husband. There was a tenderness in his heart that he hadn’t felt in his presence for a long, long time. Thoroughly mixed with grief at the mention of their son… but tenderness nonetheless.

_I love you, Patton._

He must have shown it on his face, because Patton just smiled to himself as he unlocked their front door. “Besides,” he said. “The ones _knocking_ at our door were the real nuisance. Thank God Roman’s scared them thoroughly off.”

“I’ll second that,” he smiled, and they retreated into the seclusion of their family home.

For a long while, things went much in that way. Letters piled up, Federalists intercepted him on the street with questions of, ‘ _Jefferson or Burr, if you had to choose?’_ Logan tried his hardest to enjoy his quiet uptown life with his family, but as the political turmoil came to a breaking point, he realized that Patton was right.

He had a job to do. A duty to the country he’d helped to build.

And when the results came back that the national election had culminated in a tie between Remus Jefferson and Janus Burr, he knew what he had to do.

“It’s up to the delegates,” he said to Patton one late night at their dining room table. 

Patton reclined in a chair to his side. “It’s up to the House Federalists,” he said. “They’re all waiting for your public endorsement.”

Logan let out a long suffering sigh, running his hand through his hair. He could practically feel the peppery grays between his fingers. “Of all the candidates, did it have to tie between those two?” he muttered. “It’s lose-lose either way.”

“It really is. On one hand, we’ve got the raging, arrogant, francophile slaveholder,” shrugged his husband, holding up one palm like a pair of scales. “Scourge of the Cabinet, owns human beings as property, slanders his political opponents in the press. But, on the other hand…”

“Janus,” Logan sighed.

“Who… doesn’t own human beings as property, which is objectively better?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “That… can’t be where the bar is.”

“Well, I don’t know much else about him,” said Patton. 

“Yeah. That’s the problem. No one does,” he muttered. “He isn’t forthcoming on any of his political stances, never has been. You saw him at that rally the other week - everyone who voted for him did so because of his charismatic propaganda. No one in this country has any idea what he actually intends on doing while in office.”

Patton hummed in agreement. “So what’ll it be, Mr. Hamilton?”

Logan worked his jaw. His husband sat quietly by, leaning on one armrest of the wooden dining room chair. Watching him think.

_Watching me. Holding my gaze when I glance at him…_

_No. Focus. The election. The people are asking to hear my endorsement, begging to hear my opinions on this painful choice…_

_Jefferson or Burr, Jefferson or Burr… if I had to choose…_

_Remus the Democratic-Republican, Janus the… whatever the hell he is…_

_If I had to pick one of them to lead this country…_

After what felt like a long, long moment, Logan met Patton’s eyes. “It’s not going to be pretty,” he said reluctantly.

“I don’t think either option would.”

He shook his head. “Still… I think Remus Jefferson has my vote in the end.”

Patton’s eyebrows raised high. “ _Really_.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Care to explain your reasoning? I was under the impression that you hated him.”

“Oh, I hate him, alright,” he admitted. “I’ve never agreed with him once. Not a single discussion did we ever see eye to eye. He’s an elitist, he’s a hypocrite, he’s an arrogant _bastard_.”

“But?”

Logan sighed. “But, when all is said and done… at least he’s forthcoming. His constituents know what they’re voting for. I might not like it, but at least I know half the country does. If I gave Janus the election, we could end up with the entire population opposed to the policies of his administration, and our democracy just can’t handle another revolution this early on.”

Patton just nodded solemnly. Logan could see the lingering distress on his husband’s face - he felt it too. Remus was still one of the worst candidates for the seat of the presidency that Logan had ever known. He knew he was in for four years of swallowing his bile every time he heard Remus’ name with the word ‘President’ before it. He knew Remus would stop at nothing to tear down everything Logan and Thomas had worked so hard to build.

_But still,_ he reminded himself. _Other citizens of this country approve of that. This election will make them happy, if not me and my fellow Federalists._

_In the end, Remus has beliefs. Janus has none._

The creak of a chair. Patton pushed himself to his feet with a stretch - Logan noted the silver edging his husband’s temples, too. He wasn’t sure he’d noticed that before. “Well,” said Patton, “I’m gonna turn in. You staying down?”

“Perhaps. Remains to be seen.” He stretched his own arms, wincing sharply at the crick in his back. 

That detail didn’t escape Patton’s attention. “Your back hurting you?”

“It is of no concern.” 

Patton crossed his arms, leveling him with his sternest fatherly look. Logan sighed and admitted, “I… must have slept on it strangely recently. It’s nothing to cause any worry.”

In truth, sleeping on the couch in his office had been wreaking havoc on his spinal alignment for ages. He felt somewhat flattered that Patton was starting to pay him enough attention to notice, but he knew it would only make it harder to hide from his husband in the future. There was just nothing Patton could do about the consistency of the couch cushions, so he would surely worry needlessly…

Patton was quiet for a long moment, staring at where his hand rested on the back of the chair, some debate clearly raging behind his eyes. Logan frowned. _He’s worrying already._

“It’s that couch, isn’t it.”

“I assure you, Patton, I’m fine.”

His husband glanced down the hall towards the staircase. At long length, he said, “You know… you don’t have to stay in there forever. Your… office, I mean.”

Logan blinked.

Patton gave a small shrug. “Bed’s plenty big enough for the both of us. You can have your side, I can have mine.”

“I… wasn’t implying… I didn’t mean to coerce…”

“I know,” he said. “I’m… just offering. If you wanted a decent night’s sleep on a real mattress sometime. I’d… be okay sharing.”

_You forfeit a place in our bed_ , Patton had once snapped to him. It felt like so long ago now. So much had happened since the Pamphlet that tore them apart.

And somehow… Patton still found the strength in himself to offer Logan a spot in the same room, even after all that time.

Logan’s voice was quiet. “Perhaps it… would be in my best interests to pursue the most efficient sleeping quarters in order to maximize future productivity. If you would not be offended by the notion.”

Patton just smiled softly. “Just let me know if you ever want to come back. I’ll put an extra pillow out.”

And he slipped back down the hall. Logan gazed after him long after his footsteps ascended the stairs.

* * *

Janus stared at the newspaper, alone in the crowded celebratory streets in the wake of the election decision.

_Remus… beat me. Remus won. He won the presidency over me._

_Because of Logan._

It was all over the news. The head of the Federalist party had written a declaration to his followers in the House, urging them to vote for Remus.

_Remus._

_How does Logan, an arrogant, immigrant, orphan, bastard, whore’s son… somehow endorse Remus Jefferson, his_ enemy _, the man he’s despised since the beginning…_

Remus had only rubbed salt in the wound in the wake of his sweeping victory, crowing about getting Logan onto his side and barely giving Janus’ attempted peace advances the time of day. He’d even mused _to Janus’ face_ about the irritant of having the runner-up immediately become the vice president, heavily implying that he intended to change that stipulation to prevent it from happening in the future.

And Remus had had the _gall_ to ask Janus to _thank_ Logan for his endorsement.

Once again. Janus had been blocked from the room where national policy happened. He knew as well as the rest of them that the rank of the vice president meant absolutely nothing. It was barely even a job.

_And I’m stuck with it because of Logan._

Rage coiled in him, red-hot, white-hot, burning him from the inside out. He didn’t understand it. Logan, who had always been his friend, had utterly betrayed him. Had set the country down the path of absolute _ruin_ that would be a Remus Jefferson presidential administration… all of it, just to keep Janus from winning.

_So be it, Logan Hamilton._

_You’ve kept me from the room where it happens for the last time._

* * *

_Dear Logan,_

_I am slow to anger, as you no doubt know, but it should come as no surprise that I toe the line of fury as I reckon with the effects that you and your ambition have consistently had on my life, culminating in the recent events. You see, as I look back on all the places I’ve failed, the only common thread between them all has been your utter lack of respect._

_You call me immoral, secretive, disgraceful, and dangerous for the future of this country we both helped to found. My response to this slander is if you have anything more to say, I encourage you to say it to my face. Name the time and place, Mr. Hamilton._

_I have the honor to be your obedient servant._

_J. Burr_

* * *

_Mr. Vice President,_

_You flatter with your accusations, but I am not the reason no one trusts you - no one knows what you believe in. That has always been a personal shortcoming of yours with no bearing on my actions. I will not equivocate on my opinion._

_As for “recent events,” even if my words did have some negative impact on your life, you will need to cite a more specific grievance, as you and I have come to verbal blows that backfired on you for as long as we’ve known each other. Enclosed is an itemized list of thirty years of disagreements. Please clarify to which you are referring._

_I am but a servant to the public eye. All I’ve ever done has been for the good of this republic. I have no intention of fighting you, sir, but I will not apologize for doing what is right._

_I have the honor to be your obedient servant,_

_L. Ham_

* * *

_Logan,_

_I’d be careful how you deign to proceed with your brazen and intemperate words if I were you, sir. You’ve kept me from the seat of power for the last time. Answer for the accusations I lay at your feet or face the consequences._

_This challenge demands satisfaction._

_J. Burr_

* * *

_Janus,_

_Your grievance is legitimate, but I stand by what I said nevertheless. Nothing you say will convince me to change my stance on this matter. You think and act only for yourself, and always have. I cannot apologize for telling the truth._

_L. Ham_

* * *

_Then stand, Logan Hamilton._

_Weehawken. Dawn._

_Guns drawn._

* * *

_You’re on._


	17. Raise A Glass To Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: major character death, gun duel

“Logan, come back to sleep.”

Logan glanced up from his desk, lit only by a single oil lamp. Patton stood in the doorway in his pale nightshift, blue eyes sleepy. The window behind him was dark with the small hours of the earliest morning.

Still, he let a brief smile cross his lips. “I have an early meeting out of town,” he said.

“Sweetheart,” he said, placing his hand on Logan’s shoulder and rubbing gently. “It’s still dark outside.”

“I know.” Logan patted his husband’s hand but picked up his quill again. “I just need to write something down, it’ll only take a moment,” he said.

A breath of a laugh. Two hands gently squeezed his shoulders. “You really do write like you’re running out of time, don’t you,” said Patton, kissing the top of his head. “Just come back to bed, Lo.”

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone, I promise.”

“Come back to sleep.”

Almost a plea, despite the lingering sleep in Patton’s voice. It made Logan’s heart ache to deny him. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and feel his husband wrap his arms around his middle and to fall asleep until the sun crept across their bed, but every time he thought of it, Janus’ cold face crossed his mind. The guns in the cabinet. The challenge that demanded satisfaction.

He couldn’t follow his husband. Not this time. 

“I can’t, Pat,” he insisted, gently but firmly. Trying to school his voice into his age-old logical facade. “This meeting’s at dawn.”

Patton sighed. “Well, I’m going back to sleep,” he murmured, and then his hands vanished from Logan’s shoulders. 

“Hey.” 

Logan caught Patton’s hand before he could slip out the door, and Patton’s soft blue eyes met his own. Fine crinkles edged those eyes, and they were sleepy behind his round glasses, but they were the same blue eyes that had caught his gaze across the ballroom, all those decades ago. The same eyes Logan had lost himself in on their wedding night, and the countless nights after it. That had sparkled with joy each time they welcomed a new child into their family. That had refused to meet his gaze in the wake of the Reynolds affair. That had streamed with tears following Emile’s death. 

Gazing up at his husband’s face, Logan couldn’t help but feel a smile tug at him. His heart in his chest warmed his entire body. After all they’d been though, everything they’d endured, still Patton stood by his side, those blue eyes as hopeful and inquisitive and _loving_ as the day they’d met. All the words in the world couldn’t encapsulate how truly, deeply, Logan loved him.

So he drew Patton’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against his knuckles. “Best of men and best of husbands,” he murmured.

Patton blushed, beaming down at him, and then he slipped quietly back to bed, leaving Logan to study undisturbed. He watched the hem of his shift disappear as the door closed behind him.

And Logan got back to work.

* * *

They rode across the Hudson at dawn.

Janus got there first. He placed himself with his back to the rising sun and watched Logan’s rowboat cut the still water of the river and land on the stony beach. Three men got out. The doctor. The second.

And Logan.

Janus didn’t let a shred of emotion show on his face. They were too far along in the duel escalation steps to turn back now.

_One._ The challenge demanded satisfaction. Logan had already refused to apologize in his infuriating letters.

_Two_. Janus and Logan had both recruited their seconds.

_Three._ Their seconds had failed to negotiate a peace. That wasn’t surprising.

Which left them at the fourth step already - the time and place decided by the seconds. Across the dueling ground, Logan studied the terrain with unusual solemnity. Janus had never before had to wonder what was going through Logan Hamilton’s brain, but now that the man finally seemed to have shut himself up in preparation for their duel, Janus found himself desperately wishing, just this once, he had some kind of clue as to his opponent’s thoughts.

_Throw the shot or aim to kill?_

But Janus had his knowledge of Logan as a person, stretching back all the way to that day in New York, 1776. Logan had always been poisoned by political pursuits, even from the beginning, and that didn’t seem to have changed now. The coldness in his eyes made him look to all the world like a man on a mission.

_Throw the shot or aim to kill?_

Everyone knew, if Logan decided to shoot, the man had a marksman’s ability. He wouldn’t miss. Janus would die. That would be one less political opponent in Logan’s way, wouldn’t it?

Janus barely registered the words his second mumbled to him, and then Logan’s doctor turned around to face away from the dueling ground. Deniability. An imperative step in the escalation, so that the doctor could claim afterwards that he had no idea Janus and Logan were about to shoot each other.

Which now put them at step five. Janus glanced behind him at the razor-thin beams of sunlight reaching over the horizon. Their dueling ground was the perfect spot - high and dry. Janus knew plenty of duels had been executed on this ground for that reason.

Logan was staring down at his gun, examining it far too carefully as he methodically brushed the trigger with the pad of his forefinger. As though tracing the ghost of every finger that had pulled it before him.

Briefly, Janus was hit with the realization that their spot may very well have been the place his son Emile had died.

_Six._

Janus had already left a note to his daughter, who wouldn’t be up to read it for a good few hours. If Janus had died by then. If the end of Janus’ life was staring him in the face right now, through sharp, square glasses, God, _Logan was wearing his glasses…_

_Why, if not to take deadly aim?_

_Throw the shot or aim to kill._

_Seven_. 

They were at seven already. Confession time. Janus could have laughed if he wasn’t sick to his stomach with dread. He knew what was going to happen. He _knew._ Logan wouldn’t throw the shot. Logan _never_ threw a shot. Ever.

And Janus, by comparison, had always been a terrible shot. Ever since the war. 

_Eight._

Janus’ second patted him on the back as he strode forward to negotiate with Logan’s in his stead. Janus barely registered the feeling. All he could do was stare beyond the two talking seconds at the man in his dark blue coat, so dark it was all but black. 

Logan was staring back, his brown eyes cold as ice and just as sharp. Evaluating.

_Throw the shot or aim to kill._

It was him or Janus. 

And, staring death in the face, Janus made the decision.

_This man will not make an orphan of my daughter._

Then the seconds were walking back to their respective friends, shaking their heads. Offering their mutterings of luck. Janus’ feet hit the grass one step at a time, feeling the heat of the sun at his back and the wind billowing his coat behind him. 

_Nine._

Looking Logan in the eye. Neither moved a muscle of their face. It took every scrap of courage Janus could summon.

“Gentlemen, take your paces.”

Janus counted them. One by one by one, until finally, he turned back around.

_Ten._

“Fire!”

Janus pointed the barrel square at Logan’s heart-

* * *

To Logan, everything - the duel, his heart, time itself - stopped.

There it was. A barrel trained at his heart. And suddenly, in this moment of frozen time, his mind exploded with panic.

_I’ve imagined death so much it feels more like a memory. This is it, this is death for real, this is where it finally gets me. Run. Shoot him. Do nothing. Throw the shot or aim to kill, either way, is this bullet all that’s going to come of my legacy -_

_Legacy is planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. I’m never going to see it, am I? Never going to see the America I was building. Up from the ground. A place where even orphan immigrants could rise -_

The spark sailed from the hammer of Janus’ pistol. A lick of smoke shot from the barrel, he felt the pop of gunpowder in his chest before the bullet even hit him.

_I’m running out of time, my time’s up, my -_

Faces crowded his mind’s eye.

_Virgil. He said he’d see me on the other side, there he is -_

_Emile. God, Emile -_

_Mom -_

_Thomas -_

_Patton -_

Not a face of the dead. 

The living. 

Patton, who was going to outlive him. And in that moment, Logan had one last fraction of a moment of peace. _My love, take your time. I’ll see you on the other side._

_Raise a glass to freedom._

* * *

\- square at Logan’s heart but Logan _raised his pistol at THE SKY -_

“WAIT-”

_BANG._

Logan jerked, twisted as he collapsed to the ground, dropped his pistol that he’d pointed away, _after all that, he threw his shot, he wasn’t aiming to kill,_ red already blooming on his jacket.

Janus couldn’t move. The end of his barrel smoked faintly.

_But I shot to kill._

The doctor and the opposing second rushed to Logan’s side. Like moving underwater, he tried to take a step towards the man on the ground, but the arms of his second wrapped around him, ushering him back. He collapsed back, unfeeling.

His heartbeat was the only thing he could hear.

And that was it. The duel was over, and Janus had won. He was alive. He would be alive to greet Theodosia again. 

But Logan…

Janus had struck him right between the ribs. They rowed the injured duelist back across the Hudson. 

And Janus… Janus found himself wandering the streets of New York. He’d just shot a man in a duel. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

So he got a drink.

He stayed hidden away from the dawning sun long after that morning. Every time he heard racing footsteps outside the tavern door, he flinched. Soon enough, a mournful cry took their place in the streets. 

Janus knew what that meant. He closed his eyes.

_And I’m the villain that brought it about, aren’t I, Logan?_

The windows of the Burr household were dark when he finally slipped away to its solitude. Theodosia was there when he opened the door, gazing at him with heterochromatic eyes that matched his own.

She embraced him.

“I heard,” his daughter whispered as he clutched her tightly. “I heard it all, Papa.”

“Is he…”

“He is,” she murmured. “They say Roman and Patton were both at his side.”

And now that bullet was Janus’ legacy. History would obliterate the rest. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry…”

Theodosia tucked her head into the crook of his neck. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered. 

Janus wasn’t sure it would be, but in that moment, the embrace of his daughter was enough.

_This is what I was fighting for._

_But it was what Logan had fought for, too. He had a family to protect, too._

_I just wish… I so desperately wish he and I could have both walked off that dueling ground in Weehawken._

_I think the world was wide enough for both of us after all._

* * *

They buried Logan in Trinity Church with every honor owed to a war hero, a political leader, and a founding father of a nation. Roman moved fully into the Hamilton house to be with his nieces, nephews, and younger brother, helping the family navigate the wake of Logan Hamilton’s death. Patton was grateful to have him by his side. 

This was partly why Patton wasn’t surprised when Roman came across him standing at the piers of New York harbor with his youngest, toddler Emmy, on his hip. Patton often took long walks through the city in the company of his children. He always seemed to end up at New York harbor.

And whenever he needed him, Roman was there at his side, right on time.

“You’ll miss dinner if you stay out much longer,” said Roman, placing his hand on Patton’s shoulder.

Patton just offered him a smile. “Just showing Emmy the place his papa first set foot in America,” he said, gazing at the water of the bay, the forest of many-masted ships bobbing at port. “One of those ships. And he did so much, from the moment he got here, but even now… they’re already forgetting.”

Roman looked at him, but Patton just sighed at the water. “I’m seeing it happen, Roman. His death shook the nation, but now that it’s passed, well… every other founding father gets to continue taking part in shaping the nation. They get to grow old, continue amassing acclaim. Logan’s time to do that has ended, and he’s slipping into obscurity.”

“He’d hate that,” murmured Roman.

“It was the one thing he feared above everything else,” he said. “All he ever wanted was to be remembered.”

“Well, something has to be done to make sure he is,” Roman insisted. “He did his best in life, but someone else needs to keep his flame burning now that he’s gone.”

The bay breeze brushed past Patton’s face, and he took it deep into his lungs, letting it out slow. “I always felt like he worked harder than I ever did when we were married,” he said, turning to Roman and hefting Emmy a little higher on his hip. He cracked a grin. “Figure I might as well start pulling some of that nation-shaping weight.”

“Really?” Roman blinked. 

“There’s no one else who knew him better. Besides, it’s high time I put myself back into the narrative,” he shrugged. “I’ve got exclusive access to his thousands of pages of writings, Roman. If I can make sense of them, I can put him back on the nation’s center stage. Maybe even publish a biography so that the world can know what he overcame and accomplished.”

Emmy laid his head on Patton’s shoulder, and he squeezed his son tight. For the first time since Logan’s death, a path forward was taking shape in Patton’s mind, and hope was flickering back to life in his heart. “I’ll interview every soldier who fought by his side,” he continued, glancing to Roman. “I can’t do it all myself, though. I’ll be relying on you to help me tell his story.”

“Of course,” he replied. “Anything for you… and for Logan. I loved him, too.”

“I know,” he said, shaking his head at the harbor. “You and I were given this life here on Earth,” he said firmly. “I just have to ask myself what Logan would do if he’d had more time in his, and I think this is what he’d want. It’s up to us to make the most of the time we have left, whether it’s five years or fifty.”

“Fifty.” Roman huffed a laugh. “Can you imagine what the world will look like in the 1850’s?”

“I can’t even fathom it,” Patton grinned. “But all I know is that this nation is going to remember my husband’s name, even that far in the future. I’m going to make sure of it.”

His brother nodded solemnly at the water. “Still, though,” he added at length, “I don’t want you to get too carried away by this grand quest, righteous as it may be.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t want you to lose sight of who _you_ are,” he said. “You’re more than just Logan Hamilton’s husband. You always have been. You’re Patton Schuyler Hamilton, and I think in addition to championing Logan’s cause, you should be asking yourself what _you_ want to do with this time you’re given.”

Roman’s eyebrows were raised knowingly. Patton felt a shy smile curve at his lips. “You mean the orphanage idea,” he murmured.

“ _Yes_ , I mean the orphanage idea. You floated it by me, but I know you’ve been giving it way more thought than you’re letting on. This is something you really want to see accomplished, and that’s all _you_.”

“I don’t know, Ro. I mean, yes, I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, but it would be such a huge undertaking…”

“But think of the reward!” Roman exclaimed. “The first private orphanage in New York City - now _there_ is something I want to see in fifty years, right next to that comprehensive biography of your man.”

“He and I never _could_ seem to adopt enough lost children into our legal family,” said Patton with a smile. “With the orphanage I could raise hundreds of children, watch them grow up, keep them off the streets. Give them a family and a place they could call home.”

“And I don’t know anyone better suited for that job than _you_ , Pat,” beamed Roman. “I’ll always be here to help you turn that idea of yours into a reality, for as long as I live. Logan had you backing his ideas, and now you have me.”

“Thanks,” he said, hugging his brother with one arm and trying not to squish Emmy between them. He took one final look out at the harbor. “We’ll see him again… won’t we?” he asked.

Roman nodded. “I know we will. And no matter how much work you get done in this life, you know he’ll be endlessly proud of you.”

Patton smiled. _I’ll tell your story, Lo_ , he thought to the horizon. _And when my time is up, I can’t wait to see you again._

_It’s only a matter of time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support throughout this posting process! If you've stuck with this story all the way to the end, my eternal gratitude :) This plot hurts but I hope that you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed (hyperfixating on and) writing this project out. Kudo and comment to your heart's content if you so desire!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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